


Dawn Rising

by powerandpathos



Category: 19天 - Old先 | 19 Days - Old Xian
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Historical Fantasy, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-08-27 12:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 78,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8401126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos/pseuds/powerandpathos
Summary: An Historical Fantasy AU—A poisoning; a death; a thief. A prince struggling to be a prince. A guard trying to stop one from getting killed. And everyone else on the sidelines. It has never been so hard to navigate the court of an empire when not everyone can survive.Update (27/02): I’m taking a very small hiatus from this fic and from all others, as I have a dissertation due at university in March. This fic is not abandoned, and will be updated as soon as I have completed my university work in March, if not before.





	1. Spring Festival

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/post/152413056324/dawn-rising-1

For one week a year, when the trees started their slow, careful, pink revelation across the Empire of Kaehai, the celebration of Spring consumed the people. It consumed the villagers on the outskirts of the markets, settled around the curl of the river, it consumed the courtiers and the wealthy households on the hills, and it seeped with a fervour through the sprawl of the royal palace.

The festival was colour and sound, and tasted blushing on the tongue, and Zhengxi had to spend it, as he spent most waking moments, at the side of his Prince.

‘Try to look a little more enthused,’ Zhengxi murmured. On the platformed dais canopied with silks, Jian Yi was visible to every farmer and every lord and every merchant that bowed before him. They made an offering, which a servant accepted on Jian Yi’s behalf, before following the path through the palace gardens.     

Jian Yi did not glance at him. His eyes, instead, fell flatly upon the people that passed him. Now, a girl in a pretty green dress. Now, a boy with his mother. His smile was small, his pose nonchalant on the throne. His skin glittered as the sun peaked in a chilled sky of perfect, unending blue.

‘Perhaps you should sit here,’ Jian Yi said quietly. His smile widened for a moment as one of the court ladies approached, medallion around her shoulders, and then fell flat again as she walked away. ‘A servant takes the gifts,’ he said. ‘Why should you not take my place too?’

‘Don’t be difficult,’ said Zhengxi. The air was brisk, and he pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders. 

Jian Yi made a sound that might also have been a sigh, or a laugh, or anything in between, and Zhengxi did not speak again.

Villagefolk and townspeople and courtiers kept up a slow crawl of movement before the two princes, some they recognised, most they did not. They bowed and gave gifts of jewellery and flowers and handwritten letters that would mostly go unread. They gave circlets of precious Kaehaian gold and amber that would likely never be worn, and slippers made of soft leathers that would be seen on the feet of the servants before the heir to the Kaehai Empire ever touched them.

‘Such a waste,’ Jian Yi muttered as the afternoon wore on, and Zhengxi knew why he did not like this part of the festival. Jian Yi watched the people wander away with longing, herded into the palace for a short tour of the public rooms; he looked at the offered delicacies with a watering mouth. All uneaten, untried, unworn. 

‘It is enough that they make offerings to you and the Empress,’ Zhengxi reminded him. ‘It doesn’t matter that you cannot indulge.’

‘I am lying to them,’ Jian Yi said, with another smile, a slight incline of his head, as a basket of fruits was handed to the servant at the base of the platform. ‘I wish they would bring nothing.’

‘Of course,’ Zhengxi said, dryly. 

Jian Yi, if he heard the dryness, did not comment. Instead he said, ‘I’m thirsty,’ and a servant pressed a goblet into his hand.

‘I had thought you might have received Prince Li of She by now,’ Zhengxi said. His eyes wandered down the stream of people flowing through the gardens. It was thinner, now, and he thought he might have been able to see an end to it through the garden gates of the palace. 

Jian Yi made a sound as he swallowed the contents of the goblet. ‘The Prince does not stand with the people, Zhengxi.’

‘He should be making an offering to his Imperial Prince regardless of where he does or does not want to stand.’

‘He should, yes,’ said Jian Yi, sounding tired. ‘I’m sure he will make his excuses at the Imperial Banquet this evening.’

Zhengxi frowned. ‘If he and the King and Queen of She are hoping to adjust the terms of the treaty, he should not be making excuses.’

‘The terms of the treaty won’t be readjusted, so he doesn’t care about making excuses.’ 

Jian Yi said this with the kind of lazy confidence of a man who would inherit an empire. He said it with the kind of aloof assurance of a man who was receiving gifts worth the salary of a small town with only a smile and a cursory nod.

‘There won’t be another war,’ said Zhengxi. He did not need to keep his voice quiet because the conversation of princes was something that none were privy to. He kept his voice quiet because it did not mean that people did not still try to listen.

Jian Yi handed his cup back to the servant and said, ‘It would be a foolish venture, as it was before.’

Zhengxi clasped his hands in his stomach as he thought. The last war was fought almost thirty years ago, when the Empress was still a girl, and the Kingdom of She had thought that it meant the Empire was weak. They lost in less than a month, and the Empress had reminded them that she was strong by proposing a treaty rather than a conquest.

It was not a foolish venture to try and regain the land that they had lost when they signed the treaty to Kaehai: it would be a death sentence. The Empress was not weak enough to make an offering of peace again.

‘Let them make their mistakes,’ Jian Yi said. ‘I would happily correct them.’

‘I thought you didn’t like to get involved with, what was it, _princely politics_?’

Jian Yi glanced at him. ‘If it means I can put Prince Li in his place, I’m sure I can come to some sort of concession.’

Zhengxi hid a smile behind his hand. ‘The Empress has not officially tasked you with handling Prince Li?’

‘You have been my companion for some ten years, and my friend for more.’

Zhengxi nodded. ‘I have,’ he said, slow. 

‘So don’t pretend like you don’t know my mother does not officially task me with anything.’

‘Come now,’ Zhengxi said. ‘That suggests only how much trust your mother has in you.’

‘Oh, is _that_ what she has been giving me all these many years?’ Jian Yi said, wryly. He put a long leg out before him, growing comfortable on the cushioned thrown, and there was a flush to his pale skin. He looked young, which Zhengxi remembered, sometimes, that he was. ‘Her trust? I suppose I should be grateful.’

‘You should,’ Zhengxi said, helpless to watch the curiosity of Jian Yi arranging his limbs like they were seeds of flowers in a bed of soil, ready to bloom in the coming months into something fantastic and beautiful. ‘Her implicit command means only that she knows you’re capable.’

‘Well, so long as _you_ think that is her aim I will say no more about what she does and doesn’t tell me to do.’

‘I am your advisor as much as I am your friend,’ Zhengxi said. ‘You should trust me more.’

‘Oh, I do,’ Jian Yi said, lightly. ‘I think my trouble is that I trust you more as friend than advisor.’

Zhengxi hid a smile, again, behind his hand, and pretended to be looking about the gardens. The early spring air was cool now, and the last few people of the Empire who had travelled to see their prince were pulling their cloaks tight around them and shifting from foot to foot. Some looked as if they were from the capital, Kai; some had the darker complexions of the southern regions of the Empire. Some Zhengxi did not think were from the Empire at all. 

_You have been my companion for some ten years, and my friend for more._

He felt something within him warm at the words, and remembered, as it flashed in his mind every time he heard them, the sight of the city and its palace unfurling in front of him as his carriage arrived into Keihai’s capital. How foreign things had seemed to him then, so far from his own small kingdom of Noroi, on the western fringes of the Empire. How interested he had been in the pale, lonely boy that wandered through the hallways of a palace that swallowed him almost whole.

Not for the first time did he think how remarkable it was that the people before them should come to gift a prince with things he could not touch and could not taste, but he looked at Jian Yi, dressed in his emerald shirt and trousers and his high boots and the circlet of amber around his pale, pale hair, and he thought that they were not so stupid to make the journey. 

‘What?’ Jian Yi said, and Zhengxi blinked.

‘Nothing,’ Zhengxi said, looking away. ‘Your cheeks are flushed. Are you warm?’

Jian Yi paused. ‘A little. The air must have heated a little.’

‘Really,’ said Zhengxi. He reached for Jian Yi’s wrist, ignoring the muffled gasp of the woman offering what looked like a bundle of painted shells, and felt the way Jian Yi’s pulse flitted fast beneath the soft skin of his slender wrist.

‘Do you feel unwell?’ Zhengxi said, as the Prince withdrew his hand and held it against his chest.

‘I feel fine,’ said Jian Yi, oddly defensive, and Zhengxi leaned across his own, smaller throne, to look at him.

‘We have been sitting here all day with little to eat. If you’d like to end the offering—’

‘The stars, Zhengxi,’ said Jian Yi. The flush on his skin was undeniable now. ‘I said I was well. Now let me thank my people. They’ll think me rude otherwise.’

Zhengxi had to nod, and lean back in his own throne, as the final huddle of people were let through the gates and escorted to the Prince’s dais. Zhengxi might have been observing the gifts they brought, but instead he could only remember the slightness of Jian Yi’s wrist, and the thrum of his pulse like it was breaking through his skin.

* * *

He glanced at Jian Yi through the final hour. The change was a slow thing, and Zhengxi might have missed it if he had not been watching so closely: the way Jian Yi sat still and tense in his seat, the momentary, flushed looseness gone. His skin took on a strange tinge, and he no longer smiled or nodded at the last offerings. He breathed loudly like every inhalation caused him pain, hitching in his ribs, and Zhengxi could not ignore this. He felt himself tense with every sound of Jian Yi’s breath.

Finally, somewhere, beyond the gates to the palace gardens, a bugle sounded. The offerings had come to an end, and the Prince had done his duty to receive his people. 

Zhengxi was kneeling in front of Jian Yi before the sound finished echoing off the nearest wall. 

‘Get the Imperial Guard,’ Zhengxi commanded. ‘Now.’

He did not wait to hear the servant’s response.

Jian Yi’s skin was clammy beneath his hands now: his neck was thrumming and felt hot, but it had a strange flush of blue to it. His pale eyes were glassy, pupils wide and swallowing his irises. He looked like he was in a nightmare. 

‘Jian Yi,’ Zhengxi said, hurried. He could not stop touching him: the skin of his wrists, his forehead. ‘Speak to me. What is it?’

‘I may have lied,’ Jian Yi said. His tongue slurred slightly. ‘I feel quite… Not myself.’

‘Have you been struck with cold?’ Zhengxi said, even as he knew it could not be. This was too sudden; his skin should not have been that colour. ‘Did you eat from one of the offerings?’ he said, even as he knew Jian Yi had not. He had been by his side all day. Had seen everything he ate and drank and—

‘The water,’ Zhengxi said, dully. 

Jian Yi was shaking now, trembling like he was cold even as his skin burned. Why was he so stupid? To sit in front of those people for appearances; because his mother had commanded him; because it was protocol. What did he have to prove to anyone?

 _Everything_ , was the answer.

A servant pressed the cup Jian Yi had drunk from into Zhengxi’s open hand, and he ran his finger around the edge of it. When he drew it away, there was a faint, purple sheen on his finger. It was odourless, and when he dabbed it on his tongue it was tasteless. 

It was then that he heard the sound of footsteps, fast-paced and heavy, and the clink of a sword hitting a thigh with every swift step.

The last batch of people had been hurried away into the palace, but Zhengxi still caught the startled glances of the servants as the Imperial Guard approached. Dark hair, pale skin, a shadowed figure in dark clothes and eyes as black as night. 

‘What is it?’ He Tian said when he came to Zhengxi’s side. He loomed over Jian Yi, late afternoon sun blotted out. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘We need to get him into the palace without attention,’ Zhengxi said. His voice shook. ‘He has been poisoned.’ 

* * *

He Tian helped carry Jian Yi to his own rooms. They were set in a small, older building between the barracks and the main palace building, finer than the barracks, but not as fine as the rooms for the Imperial Prince or the resident courtiers. 

Living there meant he had privacy and quietness, and that the men in the Guard remembered he was not them, and that they could aspire to have what he had too. It meant, also, that when he was trying to smuggle the Prince to his bedroom he was not disturbed by a wandering guard or a wayward citizen from Kai or elsewhere in the Empire. 

They lay Jian Yi on his bed while a servant went to fetch the Imperial Physician, and He Tian watched from the corner of his sparse bedroom as Zhengxi pulled the Prince’s shirt over his head and pressed a wet cloth into his skin.

‘I don’t know what it is,’ he was saying. ‘I have never seen that kind of residue before.’

‘Should we make him throw up?’

Zhengxi was shaking his head, hand on Jian Yi’s forehead, another on his wrist. ‘It could damage his organs. He drank the water over an hour ago.’

He Tian clenched his teeth. ‘You didn’t notice?’

‘Of course I noticed, He Tian. I didn’t think—He told me—Of course he would not abandon his duties. The stars…’

Jian Yi’s skin was growing bluer as time passed. He had stopped trying to talk a while ago, and since he had been lain on the bed he had stopped trying to move. His lips were the only things that still did, murmuring wordless, soundless things. He Tian was not sure what to do when that stopped.

_What if the Prince dies?_

‘Where is the physician?’ Zhengxi was saying. ‘He should be here by now.’

‘He’ll be here,’ He Tian said, feeling himself drawn further into the corner of the bedroom. There was only a bed, a dresser, and a small table and chairs, everything modest and spartan. There was nowhere to truly hide. 

He Tian was not a physician. He knew how to rudimentarily stitch a wound from a sword so that a man’s organs remained inside before he died or was given actual aid. He did not know how to heal. He did not know poison and the dark machinations of the court. 

He could not touch the Prince; he could not accept that he might have had something to do with his death. 

Watching him become strange and alien on the bed, and watching Zhengxi’s frantic gestures, was tormenting. 

At last there was a knock on the door, and the old man bumbled into the room without announcing his presence, the leather case of glass phials and herbs clattering at his side before he put it on the bedside table. Usually He Tian saw him in the local taverns drinking sharp wines, smiling. He Tian saw him now, a frown set on his deeply lined face, and felt something hitch in his chest. 

_What if the Prince dies?_

‘Give me the cup,’ the physician said. 

Zhengxi handed it to him at once, and then he came to stand over by He Tian. They watched as the physician inspected the strange residue from the cup with one hand, and left the other on Jian Yi’s wrist.

‘Do you know what it is?’ Zhengxi said. Beside He Tian, he was trembling slightly, and it leeched into his voice. 

‘It’s very rare.’

‘Can you help him?’

The old man’s watery gaze was remarkably lucid. 

_What if the Prince dies?_

‘I will do all I can for him,’ the physician said. ‘The rest is up to the stars.’

He Tian pretended he did not hear Zhengxi’s breath catch.

* * *

The Imperial Prince lasted through the night. 

He Tian did not sleep, and he was not surprised when Zhengxi did. The man was a prince, not a Guard, and He Tian did not doubt that sleep was a kinder thing to give in to than to watch for the slow increments of Jian Yi’s rising and falling chest. 

It had been a strange thing to watch as the physician stuck stranger instruments down Jian Yi’s throat. To watch as he brewed strange things over a small flame, and pressed wet cloths across his skin until he looked to be wrapped in bandages. 

His skin, slowly, grew less blue, but his eyes did not open.

‘His Imperial Highness will need rest,’ the physician said, finally putting away trays of glass phials and small metal instruments into his case. 

The night had passed, and they had listened to the drunken revelry of guards and guests outside his rooms, where men and women roamed the gardens of the palace from the Imperial Banquet. He Tian had sent a note to the Empress: he was supposed to have escorted her to the Banquet Hall. It did not surprise him that she did not leave her guests to come and see her son. 

‘I will come and check on him after lunch. There is nothing I can do for him now.’

He Tian nodded. ‘You should rest. You will be no use to him otherwise.’

The physician raised his grey, tufted eyebrows. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘And there would be no use for the Imperial Guard if he cannot lift a sword to defend his immobile Prince.’

He Tian was unsure if that was a jibe. _You could not save him from poison_ , he thought it might have said. But the physician did not seem to be that sort of man. 

‘I have had much less sleep before and killed men,’ He Tian said.

‘Oh, I am sure. But I advise you now to get more.’

‘Perhaps I should advise you to drink less sharp wine on the weekends when my guards are patrolling the taverns.’

He Tian had not meant to say it, but he didn’t regret it.

The old man’s smile was faint. ‘Perhaps we should both not give each other advice from now on.’

‘Perhaps,’ said He Tian.

The doctor shut the door quietly behind him. Jian Yi did not stir. Zhengxi made a quiet sound and his eyes cracked open blearily. A moment passed, where he stared at He Tian, and then he made a strangled sound and stumbled immediately to Jian Yi’s side.

‘The physician has just left. He’ll be back later.’

‘He’s well,’ said Zhengxi. He Tian supposed that was all he had really wanted to hear. 

‘He’s… alive,’ He Tian settled on. ‘I’m going to the kitchens. I should start searching for the culprit.’

‘You should sleep first,’ Zhengxi said, as if looking at He Tian for the first time. Everything he wore was black, and his clothes were unruffled. His eyes must have given him away; they bruised so easily. 

‘Later,’ He Tian said. ‘Sleep can wait. Someone has just tried to kill the Prince.’

* * *

The kitchens were quiet. Dawn was only creeping across the palace in a hazy grey sweep, and the grass through the grounds was wet with dew. The glass windows of the buildings were covered with beads of water and thin veils of condensation.  

The palace was a complex sprawl of buildings: servants’ quarters and barracks and healing centres and libraries and stables and conservatories and quads of gardens—gardens everywhere. Ponds and small lakes and alcoved groves that lead into a rear forest and small spreads of flowers and lawns for games. In spring, the smell of the place was intoxicating. 

Some of the buildings were new, but most were old structures built centuries ago out of stone and wood carvings and turreted roofs. It was a fortress disguised as a palace; it had stood impenetrable for as long as Kaehai had known of its history. 

He Tian made his way quietly to the kitchens, footsteps barely sounds in the neat gravel paths. Inside, there were pots of stew simmering on the stoves, and tired-looking servants at work surfaces, cutting vegetables and fruit ready to feed a whole palace for breakfast. 

They looked, as one, over to him, and the sound of movement and chopping and the clank of pans slowly came to a hush.

From behind a billow of steam near one of the farthest stoves, a familiar face emerged. 

‘Wenling,’ he said, watching as she put an apron on and made her way over.

‘How nice of you to grace us with your presence, Imperial Guard,’ she said, tying her long dark hair back with a strip of fabric. She came to stand in front of him, head barely reaching his shoulders, and put her hands on her hips. 

‘That almost sounded like you meant it.’

She smiled a smile that was—not really a smile. He couldn’t blame her. He wouldn’t want to see himself this early in the morning either.

‘Maybe one day I might,’ she said. ‘But you only ever want something from me which makes you a difficult person to like.’

‘I thought your issue lay with my charming temperament.’

‘No, it lays with your inability to carry a conversation without talking about or holding your sword.’

‘Was that a euphemism?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘What do you want, Guard?’

‘Can we talk in private, Cook?’

She opened her mouth. Closed it. ‘Follow me,’ she said. Her voice was weary for a woman so young. 

Private happened to be a small cupboard of an office where Wenling filled out orders for ingredients and kept an eye on the precious reserves of caviar and gold leaf and the uniforms for the servants. There was one chair and stacks of boxes. Wenling fell into the chair; He Tian eyed the boxes and chose to stand.

She raised an eyebrow after a moment had passed. _Well?_

‘Who tested His Imperial Highness’ food and water yesterday during the offerings?’

The raised eyebrow lowered, and settled into a frown. ‘It… should have been Bi Xiaowe.’

The name was not familiar to He Tian. ‘She’s new?’

‘She’s been here almost two years,’ Wenling told him. ‘She came from Noroi.’

‘Prince Zhengxi’s kingdom?’

‘Is there another?’

‘Where is she now?’ 

‘Sleeping, I suspect. Her shift does not begin until ten. What is this about, He Tian?’

He Tian shook his head. ‘Show me her rooms. I need to speak with her.’

Wenling, to her credit, did not ask further. Her dark eyes burned with unasked questions instead, and He Tian let them stay unanswered. 

They left the kitchens through the servants’ door, down a plain corridor that branched off into more corridors that were just as plain. Doors ran along the hallway, distinct only by the small metal numbers pinned in the corners.

‘You have a key?’ He Tian said. 

‘They are not locked.’

He Tian knocked. Waited. 

‘I said she’d be sleeping,’ Wenling said. 

He Tian knocked harder, fist pounding into the frame. If Bi Xiaowe did not hear the sound, the servants in the other rooms around them would. 

‘Wait here,’ He Tian said, when no answer came. He was not surprised by this, but he felt something, still, sinking in his stomach. 

‘You’re making me nervous.’

‘Wait here.’

He Tian opened the door, stepped in, and shut it behind him before Wenling could get a glance past his frame that filled the door. Warming grey light was leaking in through the window that overlooked the large training ground of the barracks, and it lit up the hazy outline of a body in the bed, sleeping quietly on its side. 

He Tian did not clear his throat, or call her name. Instead he walked over, and put a hand on the small round of her shoulder to roll her onto her back, dark hair spilling onto her pillow. The movement was one of strange, limp stillness. It was a stillness he was not unfamiliar with. 

A swollen blue face stared up at him. The blood vessels burst in her eyes, filling them with red. She looked like she had suffered.

For a moment he stared, because the sight was enough even for someone like him to have to stare. And then he sighed. 

He Tian removed his hand from her cold skin, and pulled her eyelids down. He pulled the bed sheet over her. With a glance around the room he saw that nothing had been disturbed. Her furniture was more sparse than his own bedroom: an empty desk with no contents in the drawers, a small chest at the base of her bed that contained only a few piles of clothing, a uniform, and a couple of familiar books. 

There were no letters, or pieces of jewellery, or piles of money. 

He Tian’s mind was spinning as he stood from his crouch to look beneath the bed. 

Why had she drank the poison and not known? Why had she not told anyone? Why had she laid in her bed and struggled in silence? Perhaps she had simply climbed into her bed and gone to sleep. He Tian hoped this, even if he did not believe it.

A knock at the door sounded, and he found himself pulled back from the whir of his thoughts.

‘Don’t come in,’ He Tian called out. With so many servants, deaths were not uncommon, but he did not want Wenling to see this. This was not common. Someone had tried to kill the Prince, and one of her girls was dead.

‘A messenger passed,’ came Wenling’s voice, through the crack of the open door. ‘The Empress has requested your presence.’ 

‘Yes,’ said He Tian quietly. He looked at the outline of the girl beneath the sheet. ‘I thought she might.’


	2. The Empress

He Tian did not keep the Empress waiting.

He found her in the throne room, a long, windowed expanse that stretched down from huge cherrywood doors towards the dais. The throne itself was carved out of the dais and inlaid with amber, made to look like a tree had gnarled and twisted itself to make a seat for the Kaehaian rulers. The back of the throne stretched upwards to the ceiling, branches curling towards an unreachable light that it could not help trying to grasp. 

It was not supposed to be comfortable to sit on. It was supposed to remind the rulers of an empire that a seat on the earth was not made for them: they could sit, if they wished, but it was not theirs.

‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ He Tian said, failing to his knee at the base of the dais. 

‘To your feet, He Tian,’ came her command, her voice a dark thing that sounded like war and night. He Tian rose easily to a stand before her.

A pale mask drawn into a frown, the slight purse of her lips, the line between white eyebrows. Her her fine features hinted at a displeasure He Tian thought ran far deeper.

She wore a white, high collared shirt that framed her neck, and crisp white trousers tucked into long boots. Her hair fell long and pale behind her back. 

He Tian paused beneath that gaze: casually cold, painfully beautiful, entirely impeachable. There was something of the ethereal about her, in that sharp sweep of her jaw, in the narrow eyes made of ice, in the hair like spun silk. He Tian noticed, not for the first time, that whatever lay in her lingered also, waiting, in her son.

‘My son,’ the Empress said, as if his thoughts lay clean on his face. ‘The physician tells me he lives.’

He Tian inclined his head. ‘He does, Empress. The physician acted swiftly.’

‘So, I hear, did Prince Zhengxi.’

He Tian shifted. ‘Not swiftly enough, Empress. He did not fetch help for an hour after Prince Jian Yi had consumed the poison.’

The Empress’ gaze was steady. ‘For what reason?’ she said, calmly. 

‘The Prince was adamant that he should fulfil his duty in receiving the offerings from the people.’

Behind He Tian, servants and conductors were moving about the room, clearing it from the remnants of the evening’s banquet that had spilled out from the adjacent hall. Their voices were low murmurs, their footsteps lightly scuffing against the marble flooring.

The Empress said, ‘Jian Yi is unsafe here.’

‘He is safe,’ He Tian said. ‘We cannot hide him away in some farming region in the north, Empress. Here, we can defend him. We can be at his side immediately. We cannot isolate him.’

‘We?’

He Tian glanced down, to his feet. ‘I advise you not to make such a decision, Empress. I think it would not end well.’

‘You have become my advisor now?’ she said. And then: ‘Speak with the physician. Find who did this, He Tian.’

‘I am not skilled in poisons.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But a soldier does not have to know the material of their blade to cut with it.’

 _This is not the same_ , he wanted to tell her. _I cannot play at being some sort of prefect._

‘You are the Imperial Guard,’ the Empress said. She was not simply stating his title; her words were a reminder that he stood for the guard that protected the rulers of an empire. He was more.

‘You want me to find the culprit,’ said He Tian.

‘I have only Jian Yi,’ said the Empress. Her hands rested on the winding arms of the throne, long nails digging into the wood. ‘I cannot lose my kingdom if I lose him.’

‘Empress,’ said He Tian, pushing down the feeling of an unease. The uncertainty. He would do this. She had asked him and he would do this. ‘I will not fail you.’

‘You never have, He Tian,’ she said. ‘Do not do so now.’

* * *

He left the Empress in the throne room, upon her orders, and made his way through the halls of the main building of the palace. Early morning light streamed golden through the high windows of the corridors, littered with servants that bowed low and guardsmen that bowed lower as he passed. 

Preparations were being made for the next parts of the Spring Festival: today, there were would be dances and performances in the main quad of the gardens, set up with canopied tents and hanging lanterns and small stalls from the kitchens. He Tian did not concern himself with what announcement had been made about the Prince’s absence.

The physician was asleep when He Tian arrived, and he welcomed him with bleary, unwelcoming eyes and a tightness about his mouth. A young boy—his grandson—lit a fire and fetched his grandfather a thick robe of furs and helped him into a seat in front of the fire.

‘I said you should sleep,’ the man grumbled.

‘I said we should not take each other’s advice,’ said He Tian, sitting on the stool the boy fetched him. He was a slight thing, with a head of dark hair, and he moved swiftly about the small space, furnished with crooked tables and chairs of dark wood and books—books and phials everywhere. 

‘That did not mean you should not let _me_ take it. An old man needs his sleep.’

‘I thought the old needed less sleep?’

‘The old,’ the physician sighed. The boy, wordlessly, handed them each a mug of sweet, earthy tea. In summer, it would be served cold, but the spring was young, and the heat of the tea warmed He Tian’s hands as he drank from it and let it curl down his throat. 

‘The Empress sent me here,’ He Tian said. ‘She has asked me to find the one who tried to kill the Prince.’

‘Her Imperial Majesty said as much when I met with her.’

‘I told her I don’t know poisons.’

‘You do not need to know poisons or herbalism to find a person capable of treason, Imperial Guard.’

‘The Empress said that too.’

The physician’s mouth tilted at the corners as he swallowed a mouthful of tea. ‘The Empress knows much. And I know poisons. I can help you with this one thing.’

He Tian settled the mug down. He leaned forward on the stool, hands clasped where they hung between his knees. ‘Then help me.’

A moment of silence passed. The fire crackled, and He Tian watched the boy prod it with a rod of metal, adding small bundles of kindling every so often. He attended the flame like a mother watching a newborn babe; his focus was remarkable.

‘The poison is a rare one,’ the physician began. ‘It leaves a purple residue around the rim of any container. The symptoms, as you have seen, slowly tighten a man’s blood vessels and eventually stop the ability to breathe.’

‘It has a name?’

‘It does not. The effects of it are so distinctive as to not need a name.’

‘This makes things difficult for me.’

‘The poison is made of three things,’ he continued, ‘each more expensive than the last. I will write them for you.’

He made a shaking motion with his hand, and at once the boy scurried from the fire into the kitchen. There was a rustling sound of clinking and drawers sliding open, and he emerged with a piece of parchment, stylus, and a small pot of ink. 

The physician took it all from him with no thanks, and wrote with a trembling hand, the parchment lain across his lap.

‘He would make a fine guard one day,’ He Tian said. ‘He is vibrant.’

The man’s grey eyebrows rose as he wrote. ‘Vibrant. The boy is a mute.’

‘Then he will have no difficulty listening to orders,’ He Tian said. ‘And there are other ways of giving orders than by speaking.’

The physician spared a glance at the boy. ‘A man’s merits are not measured by the loudness of his voice, to be sure.’

‘His parents?’

‘They died in the battle against the Far Isles some years ago.’

There was a moment of shared silence, because the physicians words had been spoken so many times before, by so many others. If the boy seemed wounded by them, as he settled himself again in front of the fire, he did not show it.

‘Forgive me,’ He Tian said, unsure to whom he was saying this, and thinking that it was probably to them both. 

‘Here,’ the physician said. He was holding out the parchment. He Tian took it, and looked at the names listed. They were not familiar to him. ‘The poison is not sold in its entirety; that is against the Law of the Empire. If one is to make it, they will need to buy ingredients.’ 

‘And if they have not bought them from Kai or elsewhere in Kaehai?’

The old man shook his head. His grey hair brushed the neck of his robe. ‘Impossible. Foxen is too expensive to be bought outside of a city, and Ur grows only in Kaehai.’

‘And the Shir root?’

‘Not so uncommon. I might have suggested they would have been stolen from the reserves in the medical stores of the palace, but even we do not keep Foxen, and rarely ever Ur.’

He Tian leaned back in thought, and ran his thumb over the parchment. ‘The possibility that the one who poisoned the Prince has bought these things in the city and not elsewhere, or even bought the poison against the Law, is very tenuous. ’

‘It is.’

‘I don’t like this,’ He Tian said. ‘It’s too uncertain.’

The man spread his hands, weathered and old. ‘It is all I can offer you. The rest becomes your problem to solve.’

‘And what of the serving girl?’

‘The serving girl?’

‘The girl we found in her rooms,’ He Tian said, thinking how quickly she had been forgotten.

‘I have charged some of the junior physicians to—look at her body,’ he said. _To be worked on_ , was what he had meant. ‘Her body will then be sent back to Noroi,’ the man said, weary. ‘I do not know much she consumed of the poison, or why no one noticed. It is possible she was paid.’

‘Paid to kill herself? What use would payment be if she’s dead?’

‘Some people have family in need, Imperial Guard.’

He Tian gave him a flat look. ‘Of course,’ he said. He did not like this talk of family and debt. The girl’s demise was a separate thing, and he would deal with it another time. For now, he had a journey to make.

‘You know of a herbalist who sells these ingredients in the city?’

‘There is only one. Other than the purchase of supplies from the palace itself, she has monopolised the city’s wares.’

‘She sounds impressive.’

‘Well,’ said the physician, and no more. 

He Tian did not ask further. The markets would not be open today while the celebration of arts took place in the palace, and so for now he would return to his home, and sleep. Tomorrow, he would begin the hunt.

* * *

Jian Yi woke with a sickness in the back of his throat and a head that felt like it was burning. Everything was hurting, and aching, and as he came back to himself it all felt worse; it sharpened. His teeth felt like they were loose in his gums, his fingernails felt like they had been tugged on with metal grips. Breathing set his insides on fire.

‘Good evening,’ came a quiet voice. A familiar voice, tinged with relief. 

‘What time is it?’ Jian Yi groaned, eyes blinking slow and sore. He wondered if it was possible for his eyelashes to be in pain. It certainly felt like it. 

‘The sun set some hours ago,’ said Zhengxi. ‘You’ve been sleeping for over a day.’

Jian Yi groaned again. ‘A day?’ he said. The room was becoming real about him: the sparse furniture, the plain sheets. These were not the royal chambers of a prince. 

‘The Imperial Guard rooms,’ Zhengxi told him, as if sensing his confusion. He was sitting beside the bed on a small, wicker-backed chair. His clothing was pressed and clean, but his hair was mussed, and there were red rings around his eyes. 

‘He Tian’s?’ Jian Yi asked. He tried to pull himself up, wincing, and at once Zhengxi’s arms were around his shoulders, strong and firm, and the pillows were propped up behind his back.

‘The physician said not to move you. And it would cause suspicion if we were to take you through the palace.’

‘I feel like I have been pressed between to washing boards and rubbed raw.’

‘Yes,’ said Zhengxi. ‘Well.’

‘Well?’ said Jian Yi. 

Zhengxi swallowed. ‘A spoiled batch of wine, it seems. You know your luck.’

Jian Yi stared at him. ‘You’re lying.’

‘I—’

‘I hate it when you lie to me.’ 

‘My job is to keep you safe; lying is part of the job.’

‘No. That’s He Tian’s job. Your job is to be my companion. My friend. I’m supposed to trust you because you tell me the truth. I won’t be a clueless child wandering this palace not knowing if someone’s waiting with a knife.’

‘You’re not a clueless child.’

‘You’re turning me into one.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I think that’s treasonous.’

‘No, Jian Yi. That was the truth. That’s what you wanted, right? Or are you going to execute me for it?’

Jian Yi shut his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek. Everything felt bruising, and tender to the touch. He felt like an open wound. He did not want this now. 

‘The water,’ Jian Yi said. ‘It was the water, wasn’t it?’

‘I don’t know who it was,’ came Zhengxi’s response. He was quiet. Jian Yi could almost hear the thoughts in his head shifting and sifting, replaying the events that Jian Yi could scarcely remember. ‘The girl who tasted the water from the kitchens was found dead.’

‘Dead,’ said Jian Yi. His eyes opened. He stared at the ceiling, an expanse of plain wooden panels. 

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, don’t—don’t apologise to me.’

Zhengxi paused. ‘She came from Nairoi,’ he said. ‘I remember seeing her attending my sister at our palace. I had no idea she was even in Kaehai.’

‘Did she suffer?’

‘I don’t know,’ Zhengxi said. For a moment, Jian Yi regretted asking him for the truth. He would have rathered a lie then. ‘Her room was unlocked. She told no one she was unwell.’

‘She had conspired?’

‘It’s possible,’ Zhengxi said, but he said it like there was a bad taste in his mouth, something bitter as the coffee beans from the Far Isles. Jian Yi understood: it would be admitting that someone from his home—from _within_ his home—had committed treason against the Kaehai Empire. Against the Prince. Against Jian Yi.

‘And she died for it,’ Jian Yi said. 

‘It’s possible.’ 

The conversation was making him uncomfortable—Jian Yi could see that. The way he kept his eyes down; kept his mouth pressed in a thin line; ran a thumb over his clasped wrist. Jian Yi wished he could have heard his thoughts: were they concerned about the girl? Or about Jian Yi? 

Jian Yi supposed it said something about himself that he hoped Zhengxi was thinking more about his poisoning than a girl from his hometown who had died from it.

‘Where is He Tian?’ he said. 

Zhengxi began to inspect the clasps on his cloak, pinned at the base of his throat. ‘He returned early this morning to sleep—’

‘Here?’ 

Zhengxi paused to cast him an irritated glance. ‘No, Jian Yi. Downstairs. The two of you did not share a bed, as much as he might have liked it.’ 

Jian Yi snorted. ‘And now?’

‘He left some hours ago for a patrol. He will be back later.’

‘I should return to the palace,’ Jian Yi said, but even the thought made him go ashen. That much movement… He was not sure he could walk.

‘He Tian enjoys his space, but he would not force his Prince through pain so you would be returned to your apartments.’

‘I’m not his Prince,’ Jian Yi sighed, fingering at the bedsheets. He Tian’s bedsheets. The bed was not hard, which surprised Jian Yi: he imagined him to be the sort of man who would rather a stone floor than comfort. To enjoy the feel of an aching spine in the mornings. 

‘He is Kaehaian. He lives in the Empire. You are his Prince.’ 

‘He Tian is a He,’ Jian Yi said, and this meant everything. The He were Imperial Guards and commanders and warlords of the Empire, and they had been for centuries—longer. Now, the rule of the Jian Dynasty was firm and solid—Jian Yi’s rule was unquestioned. But not so many hundred years ago there had been a He on the throne. They had been the physical corpus slipping through the palace and commanding the wars, waiting for the weakness.

Now He Tian led the Empress’ Guard. And now his brother led the army. 

Jian Yi wondered, sometimes, whether there was still a difference.

‘The Empress has charged He Tian with finding the culprit. He is as much in danger here as you are if he fails.’

‘Ah,’ said Jian Yi. ‘So he is indebted, not loyal.’

‘Enough of this,’ said Zhengxi. ‘He is Kaehai more than I am. This borders on me committing treason.’

Jian Yi rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, hush,’ he said. ‘You?’

‘You don’t know, Jian Yi. Anyone could be a threat. I am at your side as a constant. Once the court hears of the attempt, they will look to me first.’

Jian Yi watched him, warring with something. ‘You were the one telling me to trust He Tian, and now you tell me not to trust anyone? You make no sense.’ 

‘I am being realistic. I need to keep you safe and well.’

‘You are a prince, too,’ Jian Yi reminded him. ‘One day you will return to Noroi and rule your own kingdom, and you will need to think of yourself before you think of me.’

‘Yes,’ Zhengxi conceded. ‘But for now I am here to learn rulings from an Empire. One would hope leading a small kingdom will turn out to be easier.’

Jian Yi quirked an eyebrow. ‘One would hope.’

In the silence, Zhengxi sighed. He stood, and smoothed down the front of his grey shirt, his black trousers. His cloak was a neutral colour of a farmer’s clothes, the boots that came to his knees as brown as mud. His clothes were not stitched with buttons or edged with embroidery; in everything he was modest, and subdued. 

‘I must not upstage the Empress’ son,’ he had once told Jian Yi.

‘You are still a prince, not a peasant.’

Zhengxi had shrugged. ‘Then I should hope I can convey the qualities of a prince other than through what I wear.’

Jian Yi did not tell him that he wanted to see him in colour because of the way it would look, not because he was concerned about the image it might have been conveying to the people—and to the courts. 

‘I should bathe,’ Jian Yi said. The pain, now, had become a dull thing, the poison leaching slowly through his skin the more he talked and moved. But he could taste it on his tongue, felt it like a coating on his skin.

‘I will attend you,’ Zhengxi said. There was a large basin of water on the dresser; steam, slowly, curled from it. Zhengxi carried it over and rested it on the bedside table, along with a cloth and a small pot of scented liquid soap.  

Jian Yi stared at the basin, at the cloth in Zhengxi’s hand, at his impassive face. 

His torso, he realised, was bare. The room was warm; he could smell the warm char of burning wood from a fire downstairs. But Zhengxi’s oddly determined look made his skin texture with goosebumps. He watched Zhengxi wring out the cloth, and the first touch of it on his skin was like taking a hit—worse, falling from his horse and having it trample across him.

‘Sorry,’ Zhengxi said, and Jian Yi realised he must have flinched, or made a sound. It was like the pressing of a bruise that ran beneath his skin, sharp and needle-like. This was not something to enjoy. 

 _I can endure this_ , he thought, closing his eyes briefly.

He watched his skin tremble under Zhengxi’s touch warm touch; watched the beads of water that escaped the cloth and into the edge of the sheet. He wore nothing beneath, but Zhengxi did not go further than the hint of his hip bones and a dust of pale hair. Distantly, he realised that Zhengxi was doing this for him, and that he should probably not. This was a servant’s task. This was—a lover’s task.

Zhengxi’s fingertips brushed his nape as he leaned forward. Jian Yi shifted. ‘Zhengxi—’

The cloth, suddenly, left his skin.  

‘You are clean,’ Zhengxi said, keeping his eyes lowered and hooded. He stood and moved the basin and the soap back onto the dresser opposite the bed. 

‘Thank you,’ Jian Yi said, warm water chilling on his skin. 

Zhengxi nodded, his back to him. ‘I will fetch you clothes from your chambers.’

‘A servant could—’

‘I will go. It is better that fewer people know of your condition.’

 _My condition_ , thought Jian Yi, thinking, too, how someone like the Prince of She would receive this news. What a fine time to be killed. His mother would be most unhappy.  

‘He Tian will be back soon,’ Zhengxi continued. ‘He will be able to attend you. I will not be long.’

‘The Prince of Noroi and the Imperial Guard at my disposal? I am being spoiled.’

Zhengxi gave him a flat look as he stood by the door. ‘Try not to get in trouble while I am gone.’

‘Yes, Prince,’ said Jian Yi.

Zhengxi stared at him a moment longer, and then, plain cloak slipping through the door, he left.  


	3. The Kai Bazaar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/post/152772263709/dawn-rising-3

The Bazaar of Kai was a sprawling mass of wooden stalls and make-shift tents at the base of the hill leading up to the palace. It spilled out around city with stalls for food and liquor; for Kaehaian silks and amber jewellery. A man could buy a sword and a whole pig for dinner. A woman could buy a wardrobe of dresses and the furniture for her home. The stalls were replete with exotic wares from beyond the Empire; strange coloured breads from Fer, wooden crafts and steel sheets from Noroi, and glass ornaments from the Kingdom of She.

The Bazaar was home to a quarter of Kai’s workers, and citizens of the Empire and farther travelled to Kai purely for the markets. To hold cupfuls of earthy, floral tea in their palms. To bet their bronze on games for gold and silver. To adorn their heads in the fake amber circlets that poorly imitated the diadems worn by the Imperial Family.

In the space of a morning a man could lose his fortune, a woman could lose their child, and a child could gain a family from the orphan houses. The Bazaar was dangerous and sly beneath the colourful wooden awnings and the silken canopies; it was shrouded in the curling smoke of incense and the hot, acrid steam from the metalworkers’ forges. Even though the spring air was crisp and clean at the edges, the strange pressing was ever-present as people made their way through thin alleys and slipped through tents had nothing to do with the weather.

He Tian, standing in the centre of it, felt that pressing on him now. He felt the eyes that followed him, eyeing his long hair, the gleaming sword that tapped against his thigh as he walked, the polished boots, the tight-fitting coat that buttoned across the chest, the high collar that hit the back of his neck. A man with money, was what most of the sellers saw. A man not to be bothered, was what the rest saw. Because the buttons bore the insignia of the palace, and the sword was not an arrogant toy, and because most knew the House of He well: dark-haired, dark-eyed, fair-skinned. They had been emperors, once.

He found the herbalist’s stall, nestled between a butcher’s and a sword smith’s, so the space carried with it the smell of slow-turning meat from a skewered hog and the smell of burning metal. And yet, as He Tian ducked through the silken canopy, the large, tent-like space seeped through the scent of flowers as fresh as if he were riding through the East Fields. Inside, the space was littered with tall shelves, packed tight with colourful boxes and jars glinting in the chandelier light. There were tables, too, with glass panels laid over a lower layer, so that someone could slide out the panels and take a handful of mushrooms or mugwort or a spoonful of strange coloured powder.

He Tian glanced about him. Nothing was labelled, and the woman speaking with a female customer would notice him soon. She was a small, red-headed woman, her face unlined, but there was something aged that clung to her.

‘An interesting woman,’ the physician had said, as He Tian had left his house two days before. ‘There is something… used-to-be about her.’

‘Used-to-be?’

‘Yes. A sense that she was something else at one point.’

‘Something dangerous?’

The man’s eyebrows had shot up. ‘No, not dangerous,’ he had said. ‘You’ll see.’

He Tian watched the woman speak; she had a soft voice, and kept her hands folded in front of her. If she had noticed that the Imperial Guard was loitering in her store, she had not noticed it, but He Tian had the distinct impression that she already knew.

Eventually, the customer handed over a small sum of coins, and left with a curious glance thrown his way. In her absence, silence fell. The owner had put the coins in a small bag strapped across her chest, and was now watching him.

He straightened. Faced her fully. ‘I’m—’

‘The Imperial Guard. Yes.’

He Tian raised an eyebrow. ‘Was it that obvious?’

‘If you wanted to be inconspicuous I suspect you would not have come into the markets with your sword and your regalia.’

He Tian didn’t think he would have called his uniform _regalia_ , but he saw now that it had been an oversight on his part. He should have dressed like a peasant. This drew attention to himself now. If someone had been watching the Bazaar or the stall itself they would know he was investigating, and even if they hadn’t, word and gossip travelled through Kai like nowhere else in the Empire.

 _What does it matter?_ he thought. _Someone cannot try and kill the Prince without expecting an investigation to be carried out._ But he knew, too, that any effort to keep the attempt against Jian Yi would not last long if he was not careful.

‘Imperial Guard?’ the woman said. He had been silent too long.

He Tian tried to smooth out the frown on his face. ‘We must speak privately. Without being interrupted.’

To her credit, the woman did not ask anything, or hesitate. She walked to the curtain that served as a door. There were buttons in the fabric that slipped through eyelets on the edges of the tent’s opening. It was not quite private, but it would have to do.

‘I have some questions about your recent customers,’ said He Tian.

She came to stand before him. Her arms were folded. ‘Which I may or may not answer you, Panther. I respect my clients’ privacy.’

‘No,’ said He Tian, jaw clenching at the nickname. He didn’t know where it had come from. Sometimes he was feeling arrogant and enjoyed the name he’d been given by the people. But most of the time he did not. ‘This is an Imperial matter. You will answer me this.’

Before she could reply, he pulled out the scrap of parchment on which the physician had written the three ingredients of the poison. The herbalist took it, curiosity plain on her face, and then her eyebrows rose as she read them.

‘This is…’

‘You sell these three things, yes?’

She was shaking her head. ‘Yes, but… If someone bought all three I’d be reluctant to sell to them. The poison this would make is…’

‘Reluctant,’ said He Tian. ‘But you would sell this to them. And you have.’

‘People purchase Shir root all the time,’ she said. ‘It’s used as a—’

‘A medicine. Yes. But also as part of a poison.’

Her look was shrewd, and it made her look older. It made her look like a mother scolding a child. ‘Lots of things can be poisonous if used a particular way.’

‘And if someone were to buy Foxen from you too, then what?’

‘It narrows down your options. It does not constitute a poison.’

‘No,’ He Tian said. ‘It does not. But all three…’ He trailed off, watching her expression. She revealed nothing.

‘I don’t believe you’ve asked me a question,’ she said. ‘Some sellers in this market might conduct business on suggestion and implicit favours, but not me.’

‘Do you remember what they looked like?’

‘I also don’t believe I said anyone actually bought that.’

There was a beat of silence, and with deft fingers, He Tian withdrew a silver coin from inside his cloak.

Her eyes did not widen. She took the coin and put it in the back across her front. _Some sellers_ , she’d said. But no one was really that different in the Kai Bazaar.

‘They were—’

‘Man or woman?’

‘Difficult to tell,’ she said. ‘They were the last customer one day, over a fortnight ago. It was dark. I’d dampened the candles. They spoke low but their gait… The way they walked was off.’

‘Enough that someone would notice?’

‘Enough that I would notice.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘How did they pay?’

‘By coin. Same as you.’ Her eyebrow quirked. ‘Does that mean you’re the poisoner?’

 _Who said it was a poisoner?_ he wanted to ask. But she was not an idiot, and neither was he. He said, ‘They had no cheques from the palace Treasury?’

‘Not that I could tell. They carried a money pouch. They wore a cloak. Riding boots. Fairly non—’

‘Riding boots?’ he interrupted.

‘That’s what they looked like.’

‘Then they could afford a horse.’

‘Maybe they liked the boots.’

‘Maybe,’ he murmured, but he wasn’t listening. It ruled out someone from the peasant class, from the urban workers. It didn’t mean it wasn’t someone with a bone to pick with the royal family. It sounded, more predictably, like a political endeavour. ‘Was there anything else? Anything else you noticed?’

‘No, I…’ She paused. ‘They wore gloves, I think. I know it’s not unusual, but… I touched their hand when I took the coin. It didn’t—it didn’t feel like leather. It was strange.’

‘You mean the material was unusual?’

‘Yes. I can’t explain it. It was… waxy.’

He Tian frowned. ‘Waxy?’

‘That’s just what it felt like. I can’t explain more than that. It’s just what it felt like.’

He shrugged, gave a small sigh, passed her another silver coin which she pocketed just as easily as the first. ‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Would you like any of my wares?’

He gave her a wry smile. ‘The palace is well-stocked.’

‘Let them know my name if they ever run low on comfrey.’

‘I’ll be sure to,’ he said.

He left the store with his head spinning. What was he looking for? A wealthy man with a limp and a strange hand? Someone who was good at costuming and could throw off an investigation? This wasn’t his territory.

He could hear his brother’s voice, disapproving in his ear: _Then you make it your territory._

He bit the inside of his cheek, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword. His brother, if he knew what he was doing, would have criticised him endlessly. Running about for the whims of the Empress. Serving as messenger.

_Our family leads armies, not guardsmen flouncing about in regalia._

He Tian shook his head. His brother defended the borders; He Tian defended its ruler. He wondered why they were not the same thing.

Around him, the Bazaar was growing busier, a constant press and sway of bodies as the sun rose higher into the morning. It would be easy to lose oneself here, to get carried in with the ebb and flow of people and the rich smells of cooking and the glinting of jewels in the clear sunlight. But He Tian couldn’t allow himself that; he didn’t have time or the luxury for that. He looked at the stalls around him, and headed towards the equine district. If the man wore riding boots and he was from Kai, there was virtually nowhere else he could find them.

 _People always leave traces_ , he thought to himself. _And I won’t stop until I uncover them all._

* * *

 

The morning was bright and blue and sharp, and it meant that Mo Guan Shan could see everything from above the Bazaar, perched on the rooftop of one of the old taverns. It meant, also, that the sun cast deep shadows and that he and Grey were hidden in the lip of the sloping pagoda roof.

It was a busy morning; a good morning for a hand slipped unknowingly into a pocket. Guan Shan was going to do well. The place was full of Kaehaians travelling from the corners of the Empire for the Spring Festival.

It was full, too, of tourists in their bright clothing and different coloured skin; the She people with their silvery hair, the Far with their freckles and green robes. A mixing pot of cultures getting lost in the smells of cooking meats and sour-sweet soups and the glint of Kaehaian amber and the bright sparks that came off the blacksmith’s anvils.

They were, all of them, ripe for the picking.

‘Did you attend the Culture Festival at the palace yesterday?’

Guan Shan rolled his eyes at Grey. Neither of them looked away from the market.

‘What do you think?’ he said. ‘Silver wanted me to work for the crowds all day.’

‘I bet he took a nice third,’ Grey muttered.

‘He took half.’

This time, Grey did look at him. His mouth had fallen open. ‘What? Guan Sh—Red, you can’t let him—’

‘Yeah, I can. He can do what he wants.’

Grey shook his head. ‘Fuck. He’d get you to suck his cock if it meant your mother was safe.’

There was a silence, filled with the sound of wind chimes and hollering merchants and the click of horse hooves against the cobbled paths through the Bazaar.

Grey was staring at him. ‘Guan Shan… You didn’t…’

Guan Shan felt a muscle in his jaw jump. He wasn’t watching anything in the Bazaar now, but he couldn’t move his eyes away. He couldn’t let himself see the expression Grey wore on his face.

‘It was just once, all right?’ he said, voice stiff. ‘Twice, maybe. But—’

‘Fucking hell.’ And then: ‘I’ll kill him.’

‘Sure,’ said Guan Shan. ‘And then where does that put us?’

‘It _puts us_ in a place where Silver’s not cutting half your earnings every day, Red. We’re better off without him.’

Guan Shan just shook his head. He wasn’t. They weren’t. And they both knew it. Silver secured them food and lodgings in a part of the city that didn’t stink of sewers. He made sure they were clean and had clothing. And if Guan Shan had to give him half—had to give him other things—then he’d do it.

And besides, from here he could see the tent-like stall of the herbalist and the steady stream of customers it garnered every day. Some were peasantry looking for a cure for their illness, some were nobles hidden beneath the cloak of a hood.

In a place that was stifled by competition—by the noise someone could make by shouting as much as by the quality of wares or the rivalling prices on the tags—Guan Shan’s mother was thriving.

And it was, watching his mother’s store, that he noticed the man that ducked out from it. Tall, pale, dressed entirely in black. He was not cloaked, but wore one of the buttoned coats popular among the nobles, and his dark hair was long.

Guan Shan’s heart spiked at the sight of the man. How much coin was someone like that carrying in their pockets? The number of people in the Bazaar had swelled while it was the Spring Festival, but it was still broad daylight, and even from here Guan Shan could tell the sword was expensive—and well-used.

‘Look there,’ Guan Shan said.

Grey didn’t need to ask where to look; Guan Shan was always watching the store. He’d watch the nobles leave his mother’s tent and follow them around the rooftop edges of the Bazaar before he slipped them.

‘Looks dangerous,’ Grey said. He was right: the man did look dangerous. It sent a thrill through Guan Shan. ‘Maybe someone from the palace? I wouldn’t.

‘You wouldn’t, maybe,’ said Guan Shan, patting himself and securing his knives in the folds of his clothing. ‘I’m the one Silver’s taking halves from.’

Grey had his eyes narrowed. ‘Wait, Guan Shan,’ he said, holding a hand out. ‘He looks familiar…’

Guan Shan was drawing up his hood. ‘Too late. I call dibs.’

‘Guan Shan, wait! That’s—’

But he was already gone, fabric of his cloak disappearing over the edge of the roof.

‘—the Panther…’

* * *

 

Guan Shan followed the man to the equine quarter; the smell of food and hot iron was lost to the smell of horses and shit and bundles of straw. There were stalls for the leather workers that made gloves and reins and boots and saddles; there were stalls for the gamblers and the betters; there were stalls for the horses, on the edges of the market, backed by the beginnings of the small fields that stretched out from the Bazaar and didn’t cease until they reached the end of the Empire in the east.

Guan Shan didn’t think the man wanted a horse, or a pair of boots. He walked through the Bazaar with a gait that was straight and had the air of being unstoppable. Guan Shan watched, darting under awnings and between gaggles of tourists, as the crowds parted for him with an unconscious kind of movement.

The man, Guan Shan realised, had an _air_ about him. He walked like he was prowling; like he was stalking something. Guan Shan thought it was probably wrong that he was tracking something that was already a hunter.

He waited as the man stopped at one of the leather working stalls, exchanging a few words with the owner. The woman, in the stall, shook his head. And the man palmed her a coin and continued on his way.

 _Silver,_ Guan Shan thought, blinking. _He hands out silver like it’s water._

He edged closer to the man as he moved further into the Bazaar. He felt his pulse in his throat as the distance shortened between them. This close, Guan Shan could see the glinting amber buttons sewed into the front of the man’s black coat. He could see the shine of his boots and the rich material of his trousers. He could see the amber clip that held the man’s hair up, long and gleaming down his back.

This close, Guan Shan could hear the man’s voice, the deep, quiet timbre of it that sounded like darkness and star-filled night skies. He could see the broad shoulders and the narrow waist, the long legs. He was a head taller than most; Guan Shan would have to crane his neck to meet his eyes and—

Guan Shan wiped his palms into his trousers. If he waited longer he would lose him. A slip needed to be quick as a blink. This wasn’t a man he could stumble into with an apology; this would need to be a brushing feign of his hand, barely real. The man kept his coin in the pocket of his coat, but Guan Shan didn’t think this was naivety.

 _You never put yourself in danger,_ Silver would say. _The point is the coin. It’s not a challenge. I won’t be speaking for any of you if you’re caught._

To Guan Shan, this was exactly like a challenge. He could feel his blood rushing through him as he followed; he could feel the cobbled ground beneath his soft, soundless leather shoes.

The man had moved away from the east side now, where the horses were kept, and further to the west, where the stalls were less tent-like, where the taller shops cropped up and the stone walls of the alleyways rose, the Bazaar fading away into the permanent structure of the city buildings.

He was moving faster, long strides, and Guan Shan had to hurry to keep up, eyes trained on the amber clip in the man’s hair. His pulse was racing as more and more tourists came down from the city and into the Bazaar. He had to push his way through them and—

Guan Shan looked around.

The man had gone.

For a moment, he stood among the stalls for riding cloaks and horse whips, and stared. He’d been watching him so closely. How had he lost him? He was just _there._

Feeling his heart slow, his breath leaving him in a weary sigh, he looked up. The buildings a little way up were high and the roofs were shadowed; he would pull his way up and wait for the man to reappear, or find a new target.

He pulled his hood down with an irritated jerk of his hand and ambled, like any other tourist, towards the stone alleyways leading up through the city. They were shadowed, and shielded from the sun. They smelled cold and of wet stone, and Guan Shan’s footsteps pressed quietly into the large stone pavings. As he made his way through, the alleyways emptied. Most people came to the Bazaar through the main streets nearer the palace; at this end the streets were narrow and quieter and before long the sounds of the Bazaar were lost.

Guan Shan could only hear his breathing.

He pushed further through the alleys; a little way up there was a tavern that he could perch from, and he headed towards it. He trailed his hand along the wall to his left, the stone cold from the night’s frost. He rounded a corner and—

He saw stars. Heard ringing in his ear. Felt the building pressure in his head from where it had been thrown into the wall.

Guan Shan tasted blood in his mouth, and everything was taught and aching, a hard body flush against his, a hand on the back of his head, pressing his cheek into the cold walls.

‘A little too unobservant for a city thief, I think,’ said a voice in his ear. Their breath brushed against his cheek, and Guan Shan felt the timbre of it shake through him.

It was him.

His head was reeling, trying to understand what was happening. How had he not heard him? Not seen him? How could he miss someone that looked like that lurking behind him?

_How did he know I was following him?_

‘Get off me,’ Guan Shan said, his voice hoarse. He tried to move, to pull away, but the man’s grip was as unyielding as Noroi steel. He had a knee between Guan Shan’s legs, feet kicked apart.

‘I don’t think so,’ the man said. There was a lace of amusement in his voice, dark as black honey. Guan Shan felt the first pricks of fear puncture him. ‘Why were you following me?’ he said.

Guan Shan stilled. ‘What?’ he said.

‘You’ve been following me since the herbalist’s stall. Why?’

Guan Shan swallowed. His tongue was dry and felt heavy. ‘I—It was coincidence.’

The man slammed his knee into Guan Shan’s lower back, knocking the air from his lungs with a whoosh.

‘Try again,’ he said, voice calm as a lake at night.

Guan Shan felt his breath shaking. ‘I was going to slip you,’ he whispered, wincing. ‘You looked like you had coin. That was it. I swear.’

Behind him, the man was silent. Guan Shan wondered what expression he was wearing. He could hear the distant sounds of the Bazaar, but he could hear the man’s breath more. Guan Shan could feel himself shaking.

People died in these alleys too often—granted, mostly at night, when blood was black and part of the darkness—their bodies stacked up on the back of a cart and pulled away somewhere out of the city to be burnt or buried.

 _Stupid,_ he thought to himself. _So stupid. All for a handful of coin that Sliver would take anyway._

‘If you’re going to kill me just do it,’ he managed to get out. _I deserve a quick death at least._ The man’s sword looked sharp enough to make it clean.

The man shifted against him. ‘I’m not—I wasn’t going to kill you,’ he said. His voice was flat, but Guan Shan thought he heard something like surprise in it.

Guan Shan didn’t understand. ‘Then—Then let me go,’ he said, sounding young and stupid to his own ears. ‘I didn’t steal from you. You can’t do anything.’

He heard a quiet exhalation, barely a suggestion of laughter, and the man let him go. For a moment, Guan Shan thought he was free, but then the man’s hands were on his shoulders, spinning him around until his back was slammed into the wall, shoulders protesting from the impact.

Guan Shan winced, a groan building from the bruising, and then he realised he could see him now, too close, looming into him. Their noses were almost touching, and Guan Shan felt pinned beneath that dark gaze.

 _He won’t kill me_ , he thought, which was probably why he was able to notice how impossibly handsome the man was. And why he was able to see the engravings on the buttons of his coat, and on the pommel of the man’s sword. The Imperial insignia.

Quickly, his mind was taking in the dark hair, the pale skin, the aristocratic features. The money.

 _Maybe someone from the palace,_ Grey had said.

Not someone, Guan Shan realised now, piecing it together. The Imperial Guard. He Tian. The Panther. This man was born of emperors.

He thought he had been scared before, irritated by it, but now there was no room for annoyance at his own weakness.

The Guard was smiling.

‘ _Let you go_?’ he said. ‘You think I didn’t see you slip a hand into the Far man’s pockets?’

And Guan Shan’s heart jilted. He had done it while the Guard had spoken with a horse dealer. Because the Far man had been there, and he had a flush of alcohol to his freckled skin as he bet on a horse, and because it had been easy. Guan Shan only gotten two bronze pieces from him.

Theft: a missing hand. Execution if it was severe enough. Imprisonment.  

‘That’s what I thought,’ the Guard said. He pulled Guan Shan back around, a hand tight around his wrists, another shoving him between the shoulder blades. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘The palace prison cells will be getting cold.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/post/152772263709/dawn-rising-3


	4. Tea Ceremony

‘You should be in bed.’

‘I’m a prince, Zhengxi,’ said Jian Yi. ‘A bed can wait. A kingdom cannot.’

‘She Li can wait.’

Jian Yi looked at Zhengxi through the mirror as the servants dressed him in his apartments, spacious and made up of swathes of silk and dark cherry wood furniture inlaid with amber. A week since the poisoning, and he still looked sallow and thin, and he shook when he stood too long.

 _I am going to sit and drink tea and talk_ , he thought, irritated with himself. _Not go on a hunt. I can do this._

Zhengxi’s gaze was still and ever-present in the reflection. He did not blink as the servants fixed Jian Yi’s white shirt, a formal garment that buttoned up high around his throat and around his wrists. His high trousers were night-black, his boots rising like liquid to his knees. Around his head, he wore a gold circlet inlaid with amber. It was all too stifling.

‘You don’t need to prove anything,’ Zhengxi told him. ‘The Prince can come to the palace another time. Make him come at your beck and call. Put him in his place.’

‘That will not be met kindly by the King and Queen of She,’ Jian Yi said. ‘You know that more than I do.’

‘Your health is more important than they.’

‘Say that louder,’ Jian Yi said. ‘I’m sure they’d love to accuse the Prince of Noroi with treason against their kingdom.’

‘It’s not treason if it’s the truth.’

Jian Yi gave him a flat look. ‘Honestly,’ he said. ‘I think that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say.’

A muscle jumped in Zhengxi’s jaw, and he folded his arms across his chest. He, too, was clothed more formally and in more finery than he was used to. He wore no diadem, but the clasp of his cloak was inlaid with amber, and he was a beacon of white fabric: shirt, trousers, boots.

A serving girl approached and pressed oil behind Jian Yi’s ears and at his wrists; it smelled of lilies. The royal symbol of the Kingdom of She. When the girl approached Zhengxi, he waved her away.

‘You could _try_ ,’ Jian Yi said, as the servants left the room. He leaned against the carved dresser beside the mirror, legs crossed at the ankles. Zhengxi echoed him, propping his shoulders against one of the posts of Jian Yi’s bed.

‘I could,’ said Zhengxi, giving him a levelled look. ‘But that would be pretending I could stand the man. And you did tell me not to lie.’

‘It is _tea_ , Zhengxi. And it’s more than that, too, and you know it. My mother has asked me—’

‘Your mother should understand that you are not fully recovered.’

‘I’m _fine_ ,’ said Jian Yi. _Why are you being so difficult?_ he wanted to ask. _Usually it is you that has to force me to conduct my duties._

Zhengxi scoffed. ‘Of course you are. It’s not like you weren’t on your death bed a week ago—’

‘Speak louder, Zhengxi,’ Jian Yi said again, irritation prickling him. ‘I’m not sure the whole _city_ heard you.’

‘It does not matter if they know.’

Jian Yi stared at him. ‘It does not matter?’ he said. He was wondering when he and Zhengxi had switched sides; when Zhengxi had stopped being the voice of reason. _When he thought you had nearly died,_ something whispered. ‘You are an idiot if you believe that,’ he told Zhengxi. ‘Matters are already tense between She and Kaehai. General He is already digging his heels in at the border. You think the people would not look to She for this? Or Far? That they would not take an assassination against their Prince as a call to war?’

‘Perhaps a war would be beneficial,’ said Zhengxi.

‘ _Beneficial_ —’

‘We defeated She and Far before. We can do it again. It would stop the She monarchy from thinking they can violate the terms of the treaty and laugh in the Empress’ face while they do so. It would build national morale if—’

‘You cannot have a _war_ to bolster public _sentiment_ , Zhengxi,’ Jian Yi bit out. His voice was hard and unyielding to his own ears. He could feel himself looking at Zhengxi and not fully recognising him. Had Zhengxi’s mind somehow been addled by poison too? He shook his head. ‘You speak no sense. I don’t want to speak of this again.’

‘If you’re going to be the Emperor, you need to consider this—’

‘I am not going to war, Zhengxi. That’s the end of this matter.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘Days ago you were telling me there would be no war. And I—I suppose I was the one relishing in the opportunity to antagonise Prince Li. Perhaps understanding that I am in a position where someone might wish me dead can change things.’

Zhengxi looked away, tongue in his cheek. Every part of him seemed to be straining, taught as a bow string. The set to his shoulders was bunched and stiff.

‘We should leave,’ Zhengxi muttered. ‘We will be late for _tea._ ’

Jian Yi sighed, and stood. He picked up the green cloak laid across his bed, and fastened it at his throat. ‘Let us not keep Prince Li waiting,’ he said, and if Zhengxi closed the door behind them a little too hard, Jian Yi did not comment.

* * *

 

Parts of the palace were old: sloping pagoda roofs, wall panels painted deep reds and blacks. The gardens, too, were kept in the traditional style: abundant and full of flowers and running water. The pavilion where they had tea fell against a backdrop of carnations and fuchsias and peonies, and the smell of it was thick and heavy with spring.

The pavilion was open and without walls, raised on a slight platform deep into the gardens. It was circled by wooden railings, and wind chimes hung from the sloping roof.

It should have been calming and serene. The tea should have been enjoyed in silence with all the appropriateness of ceremony.

And yet.

‘A shame we could not see one another during the Festival, Prince Li,’ Jian Yi said.

The Prince, sitting across from him, smiled. It was a snake’s smile, and his amber eyes glittered like the gems winking in Jian Yi’s diadem. Jian Yi wondered what trade he had made with some spirit to have those eyes. They were wasted on him.

‘A shame indeed,’ said the Prince, words a murmur as he lifted his cup to his lips. ‘I hoped to pay you my respects at the Imperial Banquet, but it seems you were indisposed.’

‘I was present at the offering ceremony. I did not see you there.’

‘Ah,’ said She Li. ‘It seems _I_ was indisposed at that point too.’

‘A shame,’ Jian Yi said, lightly, drinking his own tea. Zhengxi, beside him, refilled his cup with the slow, graceful movements of someone trained in the art.

 _If I fail at being a king,_ he used to say, _then at least I have been trained in how to pour tea._

To serve it was an intimate thing, but they had served one another for years. Jian Yi felt himself shiver at the memory of the cloth across his skin, and Zhengxi’s heavy look. _Servant or lover?_

She Li watched Zhengxi’s movements with wolf-like eyes. When Zhengxi laid down the pot with a quiet click of pewter and ceramic, She Li said, ‘You have made a royal companion your serving girl?’

There was a moment of heavy silence, and Jian Yi heard the servants waiting behind him in the pavilion draw in a quiet breath. The guards surrounding the three princes shifted.

Jian Yi  felt his jaw clench. ‘Prince Zhengxi of Noroi does me a great honour by serving me tea. Far beyond, even, the expectations of a companion. Things are different in the Empire than in your… small kingdom, Prince of She.’

She Li blinked away the insult. ‘It was my understanding that a man who could not pour his own tea was unfit.’

‘She Li—’

‘I have been unwell,’ Jian Yi said, cutting Zhengxi off. It was dangerous to allow the two to speak with one another, let alone to sit across from one another. ‘Zhengxi is by my side as any—companion would be.’

‘My apologies,’ said She Li. He wore a smile again. ‘I realise I have insulted you without fully understanding your condition. I hope it is nothing too severe.’

‘I am over the worst of it,’ said Jian Yi. ‘A flu. Nothing more. The Spring Festival brought a great many people with it from all over the Empire and beyond. Illness is not uncommon in such circumstances.’

She Li nodded with grace, silver head bowed. ‘I am glad to hear,’ he said. His gaze slid to Zhengxi as he straightened again. ‘How is your sister, Prince Zhengxi? I miss her company.’

Jian Yi could feel Zhengxi tense beside him. ‘My sister?’ Zhengxi said, voice as still as water. She Li’s expression was a veneer of polite curiosity, and Jian Yi could not help but watch him and hope to find a crack in it.

‘Your sister visited She a few months ago. We were indeed blessed by her presence.’

Zhengxi’s voice was painfully strained. ‘I—did not realise you had the honour of receiving her in your kingdom, Prince Li.’

She Li waved a hand. ‘Only for a few days. She had wanted to visit while the roads were still clear as winter ended. She left quite the impression—’

‘Princess Zhan is a jewel to the Kingdom of Noroi,’ said Jian Yi. It was wrong of him to interrupt, and he could see a flash of something across She Li’s face for it, but he was not sure how long he could stand for Zhengxi to have to hear this.

 _He’s goading you,_ he wanted to tell him. _Your parents would never approve such an arrangement between She and Noroi._

The Empire tolerated She and its rulers because it had the power to stamp it out if it could no longer tolerate it. Noroi did not have that luxury; they had fought with the Empire and provided troops in the war so many years ago, and She had cut down those men and women of Noroi before the Empress’ soldiers had ever reached them and suppressed them. The hatred between Noroi and She was burning and it was real, and it extended farther than the personal rivalry between two princes.

‘I think it would be appropriate now for you to address your concerns over the current state of the treaty.’

‘Discussing politics over tea, Your Imperial Highness’ said She Li. ‘How… uncouth.’

Jian Yi smiled, a warning thing. She Li was treading a fine line. ‘Kaehaian tea was once described as the taste of the missing flower from the Garden of the Eternal. I think there is no better place to discuss politics than with this to soothe our minds.’

‘You seem to suggest politics is an unpleasant thing.’

Jian Yi let his eyebrows raise in mild surprise. He could feel the residual effects of the poison seeping back into his body. He had been sitting too long with a straight back. ‘Your kingdom is unhappy with the treaty that was signed by the Empress. Of course it should be unpleasant when our allies are unhappy.’

‘Allies?’ said She Li. ‘You have signed an alliance with Noroi. You have not signed an alliance with She.’

‘One day,’ said Jian Yi. ‘I hope that will be the case. But if we cannot agree on a simple treaty, I wonder how far in the future that will be.’

 _I hope never_ , he thought. His mother would have thrown sharp words at him for that. Zhengxi might have too, once, but Jian Yi felt him shimmering with something quiet and burning beside him. To be involving his sister…

‘We find the terms of the treaty restricting,’ said She Li. He held the small, ceramic cup of tea between his hands, the liquid barely moving, though a spring breeze had picked up and was disturbing Jian Yi’s hair, and slipping between the metal of the wind chimes. They tinkled quiet and unobtrusive; the sound would have been beautiful if Jian Yi did not have to have it interrupted by She Li’s voice.

‘Restricting,’ said Jian Yi, mild. The nausea was setting in, and he was struggling to keep his voice steady. Did he look too pale? Was he trembling? ‘Your kingdom declared war against us, Prince She,’ he said, forcing the words out. ‘The aim of the treaty was to prevent that from happening again. We took control of your land and some of your forces because it was restrictive. A peaceful deterrent. We did not conquer your lands as we could have.’

She Li gave him a smile, and Jian Yi saw now how it seemed a little strained at the edges. ‘That was many years ago, Your Imperial Highness. To say that She has learnt its lesson is… somewhat of an understatement.’

‘I disagree,’ Zhengxi said. ‘You have been bringing armed troops closer to the borders over the past year, despite the warnings of the Empress of Kaehai. You will not heed authority, and it seems only that you are willing to make the same mistakes again.’

‘This is business between Kaehai and She,’ Prince Li said, burning eyes narrowed, tongue instantly cutting. ‘Noroi has no part in this.’

‘The Prince of Noroi is my companion,’ said Jian Yi stiffly. His fingers were biting into wicker mats they were seated on. _A little longer,_ he thought. ‘I welcome his opinion before all others. He is entitled to contribute to this discussion.’

‘This feels little like a discussion.’

He was right: this was not a discussion. This was a warning. This was a crocodile snapping its jaws when a bird dared to lean its head in.

 _He’s not a bird_ , _though_ , Jian Yi thought. _He’s a snake. And they can swallow men whole._

‘Remove your troops, Prince Li of She. We will overlook this matter. We will not take this as a declaration.’

‘You won’t declare war,’ said She Li. ‘The Empress made a declaration of peace for her reign. She has not broken that streak yet.’

Jian Yi shook his head. Pain bloomed across him at the motion. ‘It will not be war,’ he said, breathing shallowly. This was what he had not told Zhengxi. ‘It would be elimination.’

He heard Zhengxi’s sharp intake of breath. He saw the slight widening of She Li’s eyes. _You continue to underestimate me_ , Jian Yi thought. He recalled every banquet; every gathering of the courts; every royal assembly and wedding he had attended. How She Li had smiled at him, snake-like, and saw him as the precocious Prince who was underprepared and did not care for his Empire.

And, in part, he had often been right. But it was not that Jian Yi did not care. It was that he feared, more, the possibility that he might do his people wrong. That he might shame his mother. It was a self-consciousness more than any kind of lazy unwillingness to lead. To rule.

Facing She Li now he wanted to do nothing more. _Put him in his place_ , Zhengxi had said. Jian Yi’s mother, too, had so often hinted for him to do the same.

‘Do you wish to retract those words, Prince Yi?’ said She Li. His words were quietly intense, and Jian Yi wondered what was burning behind those amber eyes of his that already flickered like flames.

Jian Yi kept his gaze steady. His body was aching like something was squeezing every pressure point beneath his flesh; he had to clench his teeth to stop himself from shaking. ‘I do not. I would add, however, that if you wish to make genuine adjustments to this treaty, I will listen on behalf of the Empress. But first you must withdraw your troops. Kaehai will not make this request of She again.’

There would have been a thousand things for She Li to say. A thousand appropriate things, and a thousand inappropriate. But above all, he was a prince, as were they all, and there was really only one thing he could say:

‘I will take your request to the King and Queen and assure their understanding. Perhaps when I return next to Kaehai it will be under a more auspicious sky. For both Kaehai and She.’

Jian Yi nodded. A small, fragmentary part of him had hoped She Li would have grown angry; that the eerily calm mask he wore would have cracked. It slipped off, occasionally, but it never broke. Another part of him was glad: no ruler should truly want war, and Jian Yi was not sure he had the energy in that moment to argue. He could feel himself breaking apart a little.

He said, ‘I look forward to discussing the prospect of a new treaty with you, Prince Li.’

She Li nodded. They drank the rest of their tea, exchanged pleasant observations about the proceedings of the Spring Festival. She Li did not mention the Princess of Noroi again. Zhengxi did not speak again at all. Jian Yi’s smile was flimsy; he could feel the sweat running down his back, though the breeze that washed through the gardens and the pavilion was chill.

They parted ways at the pavilion; Jian Yi swayed a little when he rose to his feet, vision swimming. He only distantly felt the hand Zhenxgi kept at his elbow.

She Li leaned in to kiss Jian Yi’s cheek, having to stoop a little. The feel of his lips was fleeting. Warm. His breath smelled of flowers, and Jian Yi forced himself to be still, and to smile.

‘Lilies,’ She Li murmured, at his ear. ‘How astute of you, Your Imperial Highness. They are my favourite.’

* * *

 

Jian Yi collapsed.

As soon as Prince Li and his accompanying guard was out of sight, Jian Yi felt something in him give way. His knees buckled; pain was prickling across him like hot needles. He felt like he was going to throw up every mouthful of tea he had swallowed that morning.

Zhengxi’s arms were around him, strong and secure.

Jian Yi hated that Zhengxi had to catch him after that: that he could subdue a state but could not hold himself up.

 _Strong mind, weak body_ , they used to say, when he was a child. He fell ill easily; could not go outside as much. Had to watch the men and women training in the barracks from his windows. Could not, sometimes, sit and watch the court proceedings with his mother. He had stayed in his rooms, with the nurse, and with Zhengxi.

‘Why don’t you go outside?’ Zhengxi used to ask, voice high with youth.

And Jian Yi would frown. ‘Mother says it’s so I can save my energy for when I have to be Emperor.’

‘My mother and father said a king and queen should rule by being with their people as much as possible. Then you know them.’

‘But you have a kingdom,’ said Jian Yi, not understanding, at that age, that Zhengxi was right. ‘And I have an empire.’

Jian Yi hated, now, that he had to hear those words in his head. Body addled by poison, he could not even stand by himself. How could he rule the Kaehaian Empire like this?

‘It’s not your fault,’ Zhengxi was saying. Jian Yi realised he must have said it aloud, lips moving in a quiet mumble. ‘Someone did this to you. It wasn’t your fault.’

Jian Yi’s head was shaking. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, the words garbled. He sounded drunk. ‘I’m fine. Just—Just get me back to my rooms before—’

Zhengxi didn’t say anything else. His arm was tight around Jian Yi’s waist: he wasn’t going to let him go. Were they moving?

‘I’m fine,’ Jian Yi heard himself murmur. He thought he was fading. ‘Just get me back…’

‘You idiot,’ he thought he heard Zhengxi mutter as his vision blacked out. ‘You never listen.’


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted: http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/post/153120157729/dawn-rising-5

‘The court gathers for this session today to discuss the matter of the Kingdom of She and the Treaty of Kaehai and She.’

The words of the Empress rang out through the room and carried across the long table, the chairs filled by the twenty or so members of court that represented the regions of the Empire.

Already He Tian could see the looks of displeasure from where he stood at ease behind the high-backed chair of the Empress, her white-blond head peeking out over the edge. There were murmurs of displeasure, and He Tian wondered if the Kaehaian court would rather let She walk across the borders than have to discuss the matter itself.

The scribe, a young woman with fire red hair of the Far people, wrote quickly as the Empress continued: ‘Prince Yi has met with the Prince of She, and he has made our views clear: we will not allow them to cross into our territory. We will not go to war if they do. We will simply raze their kingdom to the ground.’

He Tian stiffened at her words, but the court members did not seem surprised by this. It had already been agreed. Would He Tian’s brother be lighting the beacons for slaughter?

‘What was Prince Li’s response to our… statement?’ said a courtier, an old man with the deep colouring of the East Fields, hair the colour of snow.

Afternoon light filtered orange and hazy through the long windows, and specs of dust whirled about the room, casting patches of light on the courtiers.  

‘He has agreed to convey them to the King and Queen of She,’ said Jian Yi, sitting beside the Empress. All eyes swung to him. He looked pale, and thinner than usual. Zhengxi had told He Tian about the tea ceremony the day before: how he had collapsed from it, body still working out the poison.

He should not have been in the court, but there was nothing He Tian or Zhengxi could do. If Jian Yi did not want to listen, then he would not.

‘He seemed surprised that we would take such action,’ Jian Yi continued. ‘I think they will no longer assume us to be complacent. I suggested that his return should be with the aim of peaceably adjusting the treaty, or he should not return at all.’

This was received with pleased expressions and nods.

‘I maintain that we should stand firm with the treaty,’ said another courtier. She was familiar to He Tian in the way that they all were: richly dressed, in their middle years or older. They carried something, all of them, sharp in their eyes and about their mouths. He Tian wondered if that was the Empress’ doing.

He Tian could not see her face, but he thought he might imagine the calm mask that she wore. Watching—always watching, and listening. It was not unusual that she said little during the court gatherings, biding her time and considering every word from the men and women in the room. When she spoke, at last, and gave her decision, it was final and brutal, but never unjust.

‘I disagree,’ said the man from the East Fields. Their words were echoed by the scratching sound of the scribe’s stylus. ‘They are advancing on our borders because they are restless. We cannot expect them to adhere to one standard forever. It is like expecting a tiger to live without meat.’

‘For what reason do they need their lands?’ said another courier. ‘Their population is large, but they are not bursting at the seams. Their movements are nothing but a show of retaliation and insubordination. They are undermining us.’

‘They launched an attack against us thirty years ago,’ agreed another. ‘If we allow this to pass — if we give them space to manoeuvre themselves, they’ll do it again.’

‘And we will defeat them,’ said Jian Yi. ‘Again. Their army—their _kingdom_ is small. We have not suffered a loss in over a thousand years. To call any attack against us _foolish_ would be an understatement.’

‘So—’

‘So why not give them allowances,’ Jian Yi continued, cutting off the voices bubbling around him. ‘Why not show that we are capable of benevolence and that we can handle a small, insignificant kingdom without letting it be a call to war.’

‘Why should we be proving anything? Who are we proving anything _to_? We are a stronghold. We are indomitable.’

‘Of course,’ said Jian Yi. ‘And how long before that starts to be understood as cruelty? As tyranny? If we attack She without even an attempt at political diplomacy that is without bloodshed, then how long before the people start to look to the court that made such a decision? Before they start to fear the court when they want to speak up and think they cannot? Before that fear turns to hatred? Revolution sparks quickly—’

Someone scoffed. ‘With due respect, Your Imperial Highness, I think you are getting ahead of yourself.’

There was a pause. Jian Yi tilted his head. ‘Getting ahead of myself,’ he echoed, voice flat. He Tian did not miss how alike his mother he sounded: how the men and women of the court glanced down. How the man that had spoken up blanched slightly. ‘Is that not the duty of a ruler? To look ahead and consider all possibilities that occur as a result of—of whimsical actions? If you want to carry that blood on your hands if we refuse to communicate civilly with She, then do not cry out when you find you cannot get it off.’

‘Your Imperial Highness—’

‘I think we have spoken enough of this matter,’ said the Empress, and any protestation died on the lips of the courtiers. Jian Yi looked calm, but He Tian wondered if that was true. Zhengxi, silent at his side, had his fists clenched on the table. ‘Jian Yi will continue his discussions with the Prince of She. I believe he returned to his kingdom this morning. We will have to wait for any response from the She monarchy.’ She turned to her son. ‘I trust you to continue discussions with the Prince in the appropriate manner.’

Jian Yi dipped his head. ‘Of course, Empress.’

The session continued; the ambassadors from the regions brought up their own concerns and made their reports. The courtiers of Kai made remarks on the domestic issues of the court and the city.

Sometimes a session could last a day; sometimes a few hours. The light outside was fading when the Empress announced the end of the session. Jian Yi, He Tian saw, was siting low in his seat. His eyes had a pained look to them; his skin was clammy.

‘Escort the Prince back to his rooms,’ the Empress murmured to He Tian as the courtiers stood from their chairs and filed out from the room, heads pressed close in discussion.

He Tian frowned. He had not scheduled for a guardsman to escort her from the court room. ‘Your Imperial Majesty—’

‘I have matters to discuss with Lao Shi,’ the Empress said, nodding to the woman who remained seated at the end of the table. Something like a smile that was not really a smile formed on her thin mouth. Her eyes never softened enough to make it a believable illusion, and He Tian was not gullible enough. ‘The palace is impeccably guarded, He Tian. I have faith that I will not meet my end in the next few hours while you return Jian Yi to his rooms.’

‘A compliment, Empress?’ He Tian said. Dared to say.

Her face shuttered. ‘Hardly,’ she said, turning her back to him. He was dismissed.

* * *

‘I don’t need two chaperones,’ Jian Yi muttered as they walked to his rooms.

He Tian and Zhengxi, a hand each on his elbows, exchanged a glance.

‘I’d beg to differ,’ Zhengxi said, sounding tired of Jian Yi’s protests.

‘It doesn’t matter what you do or don’t need,’ said He Tian. ‘Your mother has commanded it, and it will be so.’

‘My mother is…’

He Tian raised an eyebrow, but Jian Yi trailed off, wincing. He Tian did not learn what Jian Yi’s mother apparently was. His face was pale and had a sheen of sweat, and he was shaking under He Tian’s gloved hand, like he was suffering from the throes of fever.

‘How long will this damned thing last?’ Jian Yi said as they made their slow way through the palace. He walked normally, but every few steps he had to stop and take in a breath that passed through shallow and pained.

‘I’m working as quickly as I can to find the culprit,’ He Tian said.

‘That’s not what I asked,’ said Jian Yi. ‘I don’t—You’re doing your job, He Tian. I just feel so weak.’

‘The effects of the poison won’t be lasting,’ said Zhengxi. ‘The physician said you should feel fully recovered after three weeks.’

Jian Yi gritted his teeth. He stopped, and He Tian and Zhengxi stopped with him. ‘Another week. More. And how soon before the nobles start to talk…’

Zhengxi looked at He Tian, and He Tian shook his head. Jian Yi caught the motion.

‘Already?’ said Jian Yi. They started moving again. ‘What outlandish theories have they come up with?’

‘Jian Yi—’

‘It’s entertaining, Zhengxi,’ said Jian Yi. ‘At least let me have some entertainment if nothing else.’

Zhengxi’s sigh was long-suffering. More, He TIan thought, because of the court than Jian Yi’s own stalwart persistence. The gardens and some rooms of the palace were public to the nobles, and it meant that often they became a festering ground for gossip and scandal. The three of them did not indulge in it, but even He Tian found himself sometimes enjoying the air of speculation.

‘Some say you have taken a lover,’ said Zhengxi. ‘And have been caught up in the throes of a love affair that would leave you so stricken you were unable to attend the end of the Festival.’

Jian Yi nodded. ‘Not bad, if unoriginal.’

Jian Yi had never taken or be seen with any sort of partner. Romantic theories festered at every opportunity. He Tian cast a look between Zhengxi and the Prince.

 _Well_ … he thought. _Any sort of partner that was not the Prince of Noroi._

 _‘_ Another said you had died and your mother is trying to find an imitator before anyone notices.’

Jian Yi snorted. ‘I bet that was Xu Tung, wasn’t it? Such a conspirator.’

Zhengxi shrugged, helplessly.

He Tian cleared his throat. ‘I heard you had run away because you no longer had any desire to be Emperor.’

Jian Yi paused for a moment. ‘Well,’ he said, and they started walking again. ‘How well they know me.’

‘Jian Yi…’

Jian Yi sighed, and said nothing. He was deep in thought, mood changed like a switch. The look Zhengxi cast towards He Tian was not kind.

‘If you listen to rumours you’ll hear something you don’t like eventually,’ He Tian said. ‘Best not to hear them at all.’

‘Thank you for that, He Tian,’ said Zhengxi, stiffly.

 _There is a reason you are his companion and I am the security,_ he thought _._

They arrived at Jian Yi’s apartments, at last, and settled him in front of the fire already burning in the hearth. He settled in with a sigh that whistled through his teeth, and Zhengxi arranged a pile of blankets across his lap.

‘This damned palace is always cold,’ said Jian Yi.

It wasn’t, but the chill of spring still lingered in the air, and He Tian thought that Jian Yi was probably feeling everything a little too much right now.

Cold. The word settled in him like he could feel it. Something sat in the back of his mind. Jian Yi had a fire and blankets.

The prisons, he remembered, did not preserve warmth.

‘Excuse me, Imperial Highness,’ said He Tian suddenly. ‘I must check on something before I attend to your mother.’

He was gone before either Prince could reply.

* * *

The walk to the prisons was a descent. The grounds and buildings of the palace were built on the hill overlooking Kai, and some buildings were settled further down. The prisons were at the furthest point, nestled beneath the barracks, in cave-like tunnels; they were built some thousand years ago by the old rulers to get in and out of the palace during a period of unrest, and now they were fitted with iron bars to hold thieves and enemies of the state and murderers waiting to be hanged.

They were damp and cold and the walls were slick with moss and condensation from the night frosts. The heel of He Tian’s boots clicked against the cobbled walkway that led down between the main cells, leather creaking. His scabbard tapped against his thigh, quiet beneath the sounds of iron shackles clinking and the quiet murmur of voices.

Braziers flickered on the walls, brief sparks of warm as He Tian passed, the only light other than the small, sparsely littered windows embedded near the ceiling of the prison that let in pockets of grey light. He Tian’s shadow was cast huge and looming on the walls as he passed, and He Tian wondered if it was this more than his presence that made the guards stand to attention and the prisoners fall into silence.

The boy was being kept in a cell towards the end of the tunnels. There were no windows there, and cool air pooled; the end of the tunnel was kept mostly closed now, but a draft still crept though the guarded sequence of metal gates and wooden doors.

At first he thought the boy had escaped, or been taken out, but he saw the huddled shape that peeked out from the corner of the shadowed cell. He Tian stood there for a while, watching him. He couldn’t hear his breathing from here; couldn’t see if he was sleeping or had his eyes open. He could have been watching He Tian and the guard at his back and He Tian would not have known.

‘Hard life being a thief, isn’t it,’ He Tian said, mildly.

There was no response—no jerk at the sound of his voice, echoing off the cold, dark stone. He Tian’s heart thudded once: hard and strong against his rib cage.

He wasn’t… Was he?

But then: ‘Better than what I’ve usually got.’

It came small and quiet, but with the scratched edges of someone who’d been kept under the tunnels for a week. He Tian paused at the sound of it.

He Tian jerked his head, and the guard behind him opened up the metal door. They both went inside.

‘You won’t find pity with me,’ He Tian said.

'Did I say I was looking for that?’

It earned him a kick to his stomach, bruising, rib-cracking.

He Tian held a hand up. 'I don’t believe I said you could beat him.’

'I’m sorry, sir. He’s been mouthy.’

'Yes,’ He Tian said pensively. 'I thought he might be.’ He Tian moved over and crouched down, the tips of his boots edging into the shadow the boy had become a part of. ‘Let us have a conversation.’

The guard caught the tone in He Tian’s voice. He backed out and locked the metal door behind him, and He Tian waited until he could no longer hear the click of the guard’s shoes backing away through the tunnel. He found himself searching for the glint of the boy’s eyes, which he knew would be glaring back at him, but he could not.

‘How often have you been working the markets?’

‘Long enough.’

He Tian raised an eyebrow. ‘Long enough?’

‘Long enough to know what someone means when they say they want to have a _conversation_.’

‘Don’t be cynical, Red,’ said He Tian. The shadow flickered as the boy jerked. ‘That’s what they call you, isn’t it? Always colours in the Kai gangs. The hair’s a dead giveaway.’

‘I’m not in a _gang_.’

‘No? You don’t have someone you give a cut to? Don’t work with other people? Don’t have rivalries with other teams?’

His words met stiff silence. He wasn’t going to get an answer from this. That didn’t bother him—the gangs weren’t of interest to him right then.

‘How often are you in the markets?’ He Tian said. ‘Every day? Once a week?’

‘What do I get out of this,’ came the response.

He Tian couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled. ‘Oh, wonderful,’ he said, voice dripping with irony. ‘The thief _wants_ something.’

‘Stop calling me a fucking thief. You don’t know anything about me.’

‘Language,’ said He Tian. He leaned in, until his face was barely inches from the boy's. And slowly the darkness started to melt away from his features. He Tian could make out the sharp edge of his cheekbones, the ridge between his eyebrows. The lip that was split. A swollen eye. The other staring at him hard and burning.

Most prisoners smelled after a week. Of unwashed skin and piss. The boy did not, and He Tian thought, with a sinking feeling, that he might have known why.

‘Which guard was it?’ He Tian said. His voice had an edge to it.

‘I don’t know what you’re—’

‘They like to keep the ones they use clean. Which one was it.’

Silence.

‘I do not keep men like that in my company,’ said He Tian. ‘Tell me and you won’t be bothered.’

The boy swallowed, throat working. ‘It’s dark. You think I’d know? And… At least I’m clean. Not like you’d show someone like me any decency anyway. I’m just scum on the bottom of your shining boots.’

He Tian ground his teeth together. So this is what it was like talking to someone like him. Talking with the Empress and with Jian Yi was different—always vaguely political and there were protocols to follow. This had no rules: it was like wading through the Kai River, pulling him down to the Lower Sea. People like him, remarkably, could say almost whatever they wanted to. It was oddly freeing, for a moment.

The moment did not last long.

He Tian shifted. ‘I am looking for someone. Cloaked. A limp. Riding boots. A gloved hand, perhaps.’

The answering look was shrewd. ‘You just described every war veteran that passes though the city.’

‘They bought ingredients for something known to some as Blue Poison. It leaves the user—’

‘I know what it does.’

He Tian blinked. A thief that knew poisons was not impossible. A thief that knew about Blue Poison was more so.

‘They bought the ingredients from the herbalist’s store in the Bazaar,’ He Tian continued. ‘I am looking for that man.’

‘Again: What do I _get_ from this?’

He Tian backhanded him. He could hear the rattle of teeth, a harsh, whistled breath. The sound of it echoed around them.

‘I said the guards could not beat you,’ He Tian told him quietly. ‘I did not say I would not.’

He Tian watched him lick the blood beading on his lower lip. His open eye was welling. He seemed to tremble at his edges.

‘You’re just as bad as them,’ he said. ‘Drunk on power. Controlling.’

‘Oh, keep going,’ said He Tian. ‘Keep telling me exactly what I _am_. You’re in just the right position to pass comment like that.’

He thought the boy would spit at him, but instead he did nothing, and He Tian felt a sense of loss that his silence had come so quickly. He had almost been enjoying himself.

He Tian stood, boots creaking. 'Have a nice night, Red.’

‘Wait! Wait, I’m—I didn't—’

‘Yes?’

‘I might have seen him,’ he bit out. Spat into the floor because his gums were probably swelling with blood.

‘What was that?’

He gritted his teeth. ‘I said I might have seen him. Maybe. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Now please just—just let me go.’

He Tian stared at him, tilted his head slightly. He was lying, but He Tian couldn’t blame him. ‘Hmm,’ he said. And the way he looked at him probably made the boy understand, maybe, why people called him the Panther. ‘I don’t think so.’

And then he shut the door, metal grating against metal, and he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted: http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/post/153120157729/dawn-rising-5
> 
> Please leave kudos if you enjoyed!


	6. Gossip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/post/153750510464/dawn-rising-6
> 
> Dedicated to Kai152 on Tumblr because [look at this incredible artwork](https://kai152.tumblr.com/post/153715835164/thefearofthetruth-fanart-for-the-19-days-fanfic) they made for this fic.

‘He’s terribly ill. Disfigured face. Can barely breathe, the poor thing.’

‘Ill? The Prince isn’t ill. You know how he looks at Prince Zhengxi. The two have probably been cooped up in his rooms for two weeks. You know how the Spring Festival affects the libido.’

‘I’m not sure we quite need to know about your own rutting habits, Tsang Li.’

‘Rutting? Don’t be bitter with me that you haven’t found a husband, Yu Ming.’

A snort of laughter. ‘Rather no husband than to be married and fantasising about our Prince’s bedroom activities. Is yours so desperately sub-par?’

‘Please. Like we all don’t speculate about a young man as beautiful… as…’

‘Oh, please,’ said Jian Yi, sitting down in the pavilion. ‘Do continue.’

There was a shock of silence, and after a clearing of Zhengxi’s throat, the women and men prostrated themselves on the floor around Jian Yi, heads bowed. From this angle, Jian Yi could still make out the reddening slope of Tsang Li’s neck.

Gossip among the nobles stewed like tea leaves in the garden pavilions, and the warmth of the sun helped it to grow. Jian Yi hadn’t thought they would be quite so carelessly explicit.

‘That’ll do,’ said Jian Yi to the prostrate nobles. Zhengxi, sitting at his left, was already busying himself with the tea. The corners of his mouth were twitching.

‘Stop it,’ Jian Yi murmured.

Zhengxi’s lips trembled into a pressed white line.

The noblemen and women sat themselves down once more on their cushions. Some looked mollified; others were more appropriately serene. Yu Ming had her neck inclined at an angle.

‘Are you better, Your Imperial Royal Highness?’

‘I was ill?’ Jian Yi said curiously, voice light as he raised the cup to his lips. It tasted sharply of lemon and peppermint. After mellow soups and broths and bland green teas, the taste made his eyes widen slightly.

‘We heard you—’

‘I thought you would all be much more intrigued by the movements of, perhaps, the Prince She Li than by my personal wellbeing. Though, forgive me, I am most honoured that you would care for my health so diligently.’

‘Of course, Your Highness,’ said Yu Ming, bowing her head, long black hair trailing over her shoulder. ‘We want nothing more than our future Emperor to be strong so that he might lead us into continued greatness.’

‘Mm,’ said Jian Yi, smiling behind the rim of the cup. _Continued greatness._ ‘Quite.’

Yu Ming’s eyes were bright, rimmed by thick khol. Her lips were a bruising red. Her family had been in the court of Kaehai for centuries; the look she was giving Jian Yi was familiar and knowing, and Jian Yi saw the effect it had on the other nobles: unadulterated envy.

‘May I pass comment on She, Prince Jian Yi?’

Jian Yi glanced at Tsang Li. The glance said that he had heard he words, and he had not forgotten them. Prostration and a blink of long lashes had not changed that. ‘By all means.’

Tsang Li settled herself into her cushion, the deep purple of her family colours. Her shirt was lilac, her layered skirts the colour of violets. She was not going to be mistaken for another house. ‘If they go against the treaty the Empress so benevolently offered,’ she said, ‘then they should be punished aptly.'

’Punished?’

'Yes. Stripped of land—of arms.'

'You would not try for a peaceable approach first?'

Tsang Li swallowed. ‘I—’

‘I think what Tsang is trying to say,’ Yu Ming cut in, ‘is that the Empress has already offered She and its rulers so much. If they continue to ask for more, they will forget their place.’

‘Shouldn't forget their place,’ Jian Yi said, smiling. He passed a wink to Yu MIng, a flashing, almost-missed thing. Her smile was deep, because sometimes Jian Yi treated people like he was telling a secret, and he liked that they did not think he knew it.

* * *

 

Zhengxi had his lips at Jian Yi’s ear as they left the pavilion, some hours later. The hand he had on Jian Yi’s elbow was firm as they walked through the gardens and headed back into the main buildings of the palace

‘What was all of that?’ he said insistently, lowly. ‘Pandering to the nobles. Are you hoping to court Yu Ming?’

Jian Yi stopped, and pulled away from him. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Are you jealous?’

Zhengxi’s expression was unreadable, and it filled Jian Yi with a quiet disappointment. Not even a blush. He saw, though, a muscle jump in Zhengxi’s jaw, but he thought it was probably anger.

He hated when Jian Yi teased him like this. Jian Yi used to like it: when they were younger he was bloom red from head to toe, and Jian Yi would feel how the back of his neck was so hot under his hand. His words would stumble, and his feet would trip over themselves. Laughter, delighted, would bubble from Jian Yi at the sight of Zhengxi flustered.

And now—had he gotten used to it? Or had he grown tired? Did Jian Yi bore him?

He never told him not to, but Jian Yi could never tell if it was because he was the Prince, and he could never tell him no, or if it was because he wanted it and couldn’t bring himself to say yes. Or maybe he simply didn’t care.

Jian Yi held a hand on the back of his own neck, and wrapped the other hand around his hip, arm across his stomach. Zhengxi, sometimes, made him feel so…

'Come on, Zhengxi,’ Jian Yi said. ‘Don't disappoint me. What do you think that was for?’

Zhengxi was frowning. ‘You wished to distil idle gossip? You’re not really that conscious of rumour, are you?’

‘This palace is built on rumour and gossip. But no. I heard she was considering a proposal of marriage from a noble in She.’

Zhengxi looked at him, startled. ‘From whom?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘No,’ Zhengxi admitted, after a moment. ‘And you hoped, what, to see where her loyalties lie?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Her family has remained in the Empire for centuries. They have always payed tribute to your mother.’

‘Yes.'

‘But she would also be a fool to decline the marriage. She is almost twenty-five and has no children.’

‘Also true.’

Zhengxi frowned. ‘And your conclusion?’

‘I haven't decided. You’re my advisor, after all. Advise me.’

‘No,’ said Zhengxi slowly. They were walking again now, and they found themselves wandering through the galleries of the palace. Portraits of nobles and royals staring at them through their gilded frames. ‘I am your companion.’

‘Then offer me friendly counsel. From one prince to another.’

‘The Kaehaian Court will be unhappy if they hear you are using my word as guidance. I am a Prince of Noroi—not Kaehai.’

Jian Yi glanced at him. ‘Really,’ he said, deadpan.

Zhengxi gave him a gentle push on his shoulder, and Jian Yi stumbled slightly.

Zhengxi had stilled, and Jian Yi was staring at him. ‘You just pushed your Prince,’ Jian Yi said.

Zhengxi blinked. ‘I thought I was a prince too?’

Another heavy silence, and Jian Yi could feel how Zhengxi was slowly, quietly considering if Jian Yi was honestly offended. Didn’t he know him well enough by now?

Jian Yi jumped on him before the grin could split fully across his face, and Zhengxi was pawing over his shoulder at him, trying to get him off. Jian Yi’s laughter echoed off the marble floor.

‘Get _off,_ you—’

‘Careful, I’m a prince—’

‘How are you still so _heavy_?’

‘Blame my height.’

Zhengxi was still trying to buck him off, but Jian Yi could see the grin that had worked its way onto his face, and his attempts to remove Jian Yi were, frankly, pathetic.

‘Your Imperial Highness?’

They both looked up at the servant, a small, grey-haired man staring at them behind wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a look of faintly concealed bewilderment from where he stood in one of the gallery archways.

The servant cleared his throat. ‘The Empress is looking for you, Your Imperial Highness.’

Jian Yi unwound his legs from Zhengxi’s waist and felt himself stumble slightly as his feet hit the floor, Zhengxi’s hand firm on his shoulder.

‘Right,’ Jian Yi said, dusting himself down. ‘Back to being the Prince.’

He could feel Zhengxi’s eyes on him as they followed the servant to wherever his mother was waiting, and he knew his eyes would be glinting. Jian Yi tried to smother his smile.

* * *

 

The cells were cold at night, and Guan Shan couldn’t sleep. After the Imperial Guard had left, he was moved to another cell, closer to the entrance, with a window—no longer cooped in one of the cells towards the end of the tunnel where light didn’t reach.

He didn’t ask why he was being moved, just as he didn’t ask why he was given a scratchy, coarse blanket on the second night, or why he was washed with cold buckets on the third night—and no one had touched him for it.

No one touched him at all.

He would have been grateful for it, if it didn’t frighten him. Not because he didn’t know what to do with a nobleman that actually kept their word, for no reason, but because he was not sure what the Guard wanted from him after it. What was all of this for? Why was the food, though bland and sometimes totally absent, more plentiful than he knew the other prisoners were getting?

He knew what one of the boys on the roofs would have said: _He_ _’s just warming you up so he can_ fuck _you._ And normally he wouldn’t care. Would have lain still and quiet at the click of trousers unbuttoning. But the thought of the Guard putting his hands on him, dark hair falling onto his face, made Guan Shan tremble in quiet horror.

Guan Shan thought only about how rough it would be, how the man would bruise him, how he would stare at him and made him _look_ at him. He would not, as most of the would, make it something that would be easy to forget.

He squeezed his eyes tighter, and drew his cloak tighter around him, too. They had given him a low pallet a few days ago, but it was as good as sleeping on the hard stone floor, and so he did. At least, he tried to.

 _Am I that desperate?_ he asked himself, hating that all he could do as he sat in the cell and days slipped away, was think about a descendent of warriors and emperors—a man who had eyes that were supposed to be cruel and a mouth that was supposed to be wicked—fucking him.

He should have been thinking about trying to escape. Except he’d had a way, before the Guard had changed things. One of the men would come, and use him, and wash him. He left his keys on the floor. Guan Shan was just waiting. Waiting for him to get comfortable, to get used to it—until he wouldn’t realise that a key had slipped off. And Guan Shan would have taken his clothes, slipped out through the shadowed tunnel of the prison, and met cold, fresh air.

And instead—what? The Imperial Guard had ruined it because of _pity?_

So now no one came, and no one touched him, and no one talked to him, and all he knew was the useless knowledge of the guard’s rotation schedules, and what type of congee he might be getting for breakfast.

Guan Shan rolled over again, and blinked into the darkness.

He heard it then, a quiet shuffling. At first it was low, like the skitter of an animal, and Guan Shan thought it was rat running through the cells, his skin crawling, but then—it was closer. Behind him.

It was coming from the bars of his cell. It was coming from outside.

‘Guan Shan?’ a voice whispered.

Guan Shan stared. Through the darkness, through the bars, a pair of light eyes stared back.

It was Grey.

‘Thank the stars,’ Grey said, falling against the bars in relief.

Guan Shan was reaching up towards them in seconds, fingers barely able to wrap around them, his feet barely touching the floor. ‘What are you _doing_ here?’ he hissed, panic flooding his voice, eyes darting behind him, though there was no one there, and no one would bother to listen. The men and women in the cells talked to themselves enough. Guan Shan was kept away by their jittered muttering most nights.

‘I’m getting you out,’ Grey said.  What the hell does it look like?’

‘He’ll kill you, you fucking idiot.’

‘He?’

‘Leave, Grey. I’m _fine_.’

Grey was shaking his head. ‘Of course you’re fine,’ he muttered. He was already wrapping wire around the bars. Guan Shan knew what he was going to do: Guan Shan had given him a small vial of yellow powder a few months ago. It ate through metal about as well as it ate through skin. And Grey wasn’t wearing gloves.

Guan Shan held back a groan. ‘You idiot,’ he said instead. ‘I gave you that for _emergencies_.’

‘I think getting you out of the Royal Prison constitutes an _emergency,_ don’t you?’

‘No, Grey. No, it doesn’t. You can’t just throw around chemicals and poisons. They’re dangerous.’

‘You tell me enough already,’ said Grey, but he wasn’t listening. The glass vial caught a glint of moonlight. The powder sat in its case, harmless.

‘I can’t even fit through the space,’ said Guan Shan, eyeing it. He knew that, probably, he could. He was skinny, and his hips were narrow, and Grey would pull him through. But it would be tight, and the thought of being caught, half-way through, made something catch in his throat.

‘Just stand back,’ said Grey. ‘Don’t breathe any of this in.’

‘Grey, don’t. You don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘Yeah, well, there’s a first for everything, isn’t there?’ he said. And the grin he threw at Guan Shan was hapless, and young, and fondly, ridiculously stupid. It wasn’t the first time that Guan Shan thought about the insanity of becoming friends with someone like him: someone who slipped on roof tiles as much as over their own feet; someone who’d already lost a finger from a shoddy pocket picking; someone who _smiled_ when they were running from danger—and someone who Guan Shan couldn’t help but smile back at.

Guan Shan was impulsive. His situation, now, spoke for that well enough. But it was an impulsiveness driven, a little, by greed and determination more than hapless curiosity and wilfulness. He could not deny that he had seen the Guard and felt a thrill, but he knew more that he had followed him because he stank of gold coin.

What a stupid, stupid decision.

Guan Shan sighed. Grey was unstoppering the vial now, a quiet _pop_ , the scrape of glass on glass, and Guan Shan stood back with his arms folded.

‘This isn’t going to end well,’ Guan Shan said, quietly. He would have kept watch, except the braziers were unlit at this time of night, and footsteps echoed loudly enough to give forewarning.

Guan Shan watched as Grey shook the powder carefully down the length of the metal bars, yellow residue coating each of them, and then he scurried back. For a moment, nothing happened, and then Guan Shan saw the slow curl of smoke, and heard the low hiss of metal beating eaten away.

It took a while, and with every low pop of metal breaking, Guan Shan’s heart beat harder in his chest. The cobbled path between the cells was quiet and empty, and he could hear nothing but the low, far-off mutter of a guard, and the quiet snuffles and mutterings of sleeping prisoners shivering in their cells.

Eventually, the last bar collapsed into a pile of sharp-smelling ash and Grey gently blew it from the sill, and onto the floor of the cell.

Guan Shan stared at him. ‘Now what?’ he said.

Grey reached a hand through the open space. It looked even smaller now the bars were gone. ‘Now you—’

He broke off as the sound of metal clicking ran through the cells. Someone was opening the main gate to the prison.

Guan Shan waved Grey away. ‘ _Hide_ ,’ he mouthed, heart beating fast as Grey wrapped his cloak around him and pressed himself to the outside wall between the cell windows. Guan Shan could see the edge of his cloak.

Guan Shan didn’t know where to go. There was no where _to_ go. Something wasn’t right: the guards didn’t rotate at this hour. It was too early.

Fear spiked through him. What if they knew? What if someone had spotted Grey around the palace grounds, or near the prison? He heard the click of boots, long, certain, unceasing strides. 

He knew that stride. He hadn’t heard it since the last time he had come and asked him strange questions and knocked a fist into Guan Shan’s face that had made him see stars, but he thought he would recognise it anywhere now. It hadn’t been like the sharp punches of the guards, or the nasty cuffs from Silver when he got cocky and ruined a job. His bones had ached with it for days. Guan Shan wondered if the Imperial Guard knew how hard he had made it, and thought that probably he did.

His heart stuttered as light flickered, and a shadow loomed closer to the outside of his cell.

In the space of a breath, he was standing in front of his cell. He looked like he had before: dressed in black, his hair tied in a bun, away from a face that was achingly, awfully handsome. He didn’t deserve that face. It was splayed with shadows as the torch flickered in his hand.

‘Come back for more?’ Guan Shan said, knowing, as soon as they left his mouth, that he shouldn’t have said it.

But the Guard’s eyes were still, and they were watching him. Guan Shan realised, when he looked at the man’s other hand, that he was holding keys.

He felt sickening realisation wash over him, and he thought only that Grey shouldn’t have to listen to this. Why else would the Guard be here at this time, when everyone was asleep, when no one would care to listen to muffled cries and the smack of flesh?

‘Don’t be absurd,’ the Guard said, voice low and cutting, like he knew what Guan Shan was thinking. ‘I’m not going to touch you.’

Guan Shan swallowed. The words didn’t assuage his fears at all. ‘No?’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t have to touch me to kill me.’

The Guard rolled his eyes. He stuck the torch in a holder on the wall, beside the cell gate, and there was the quiet jingle of keys as he found the one for Guan Shan’s cell.

‘You have a very high opinion of yourself if you think I’m going to fuck you or kill you.’

‘I think that says more about yourself if you only fuck or kill the people you like.’

The Guard raised his eyebrows as the door swung open, with a silence of well-oiled hinges, and Guan Shan couldn’t help it when he took a step back.

 _Careful,_ he thought. The powder would still cut through the soles of his soft shoes if he didn’t watch his step.

‘Who said I like the people I fuck?’ said the Imperial Guard. 

His voice was low, and it shuddered through Guan Shan in a way that he couldn’t make sense of—and didn’t want to. He was tired, and everything ached, and is stomach felt cavernous. He didn’t think anything was going to make sense to him then. He knew only that _fuck_ sounded different when someone born of emperors said it.

A heavy silence passed between them, and Guan Shan could feel so distinctly the way the man was watching him. He knew what he was seeing: a petulant, thin adolescent with wiry muscle and cropped, copper-red hair that would have fetched a pretty penny if someone ever cut off a lock. There was more than one reason he didn’t wear it long.

‘Are you going to let me go?’ Guan Shan said, quietly.

‘No.’

Guan Shan bit down his frustration. ‘You won’t kill me, fuck me, or let me go. I think I’ve probably run out of use for you.’

‘And now you underestimate yourself,’ said the Guard, folding his arms. He should have looked arrogant with the motion, and cruel, and he did a little, but mostly he was frightening.

‘What?’ said Guan Shan. He was finding it difficult to keep up a conversation. Was this what it was like talking to aristocrats—to royalty? Twists and turns and hidden implications that could get a sword point pressed against your throat with a wrong turn—or worse. The Kai streets had their pretty silks and lavish markets, but a brutal honesty crept beneath it all, and Guan Shan knew how to recognise himself there. Here, with this man, on palace grounds, he did not.

He felt a moment of delirious irony: his mother had always wanted to meet the Empress, or see the royalty of Kaehai. This was probably the closest either of them would ever get.

‘You’re to help me,’ said the Guard. ‘I need someone who has an understanding of poisons. I need someone who thinks like you do. As a thief. As someone who doesn’t want to get caught.’

Guan Shan stared at him. ‘I think—You are making a mistake.’

‘I don’t think so. You knew about the blue poison. That is far more than someone with a normal understanding of herbalism would possess.’

Whatever he had been expecting—it had not been this. ‘What makes you so sure that I know anything? I might be useless to you. Will you kill me if I do something wrong?’

The Guard’s look flashed with annoyance. ‘I grow tired with your persistence that I resort to killing anything I’m unhappy with.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Do you want to test that?’

Guan Shan looked away, teeth grinding against each other. ‘And what will I get out of this?’

‘What will you—’ The Guard stopped himself short. ‘Nothing,’ he said, simply. ‘You will get nothing. This will be your punishment. But if you’d rather, I can take your hand.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Wouldn’t I? You do have some difficulty with making assumptions about me.’ A tense silence passed between them, and the Guard sighed. He smoothed loose strands of dark hair back from his face. It was a remarkable show of _humanness_ , and Guan Shan thought he would rather him be a polished, immovable figure of marble than anything this real. ‘You will share my rooms,’ he said. ‘You will be fed, and given clothes. This is really more than you deserve.’

‘Will I have books?’

He tilted his head. ‘Books?’ he said. ‘If you want.’

Guan Shan felt the quietness in his head. He wasn’t shaking anymore. Everything felt clouded and muted. He didn’t understand why this was happening. How long would he have to stay with the man? Until the poisoner was caught? Until he decided his punishment had been fulfilled? How long was that? What else would he _expect_ him to do?

He knew what a servant’s life was like, and he knew too, that in Kai it was little more than slavery. He knew too many girls and boys who ran the roofs and used to work in the big houses on the slopes of the Kai Hill, who had to bend over as they dusted a cherry-wood table or an amber cabinet and let hands slide between their thighs.

And the Imperial Guard had the blood of an empire running through his veins. His brother led the Kaehaian army, and perhaps this man would too one day. What stopped _him_ from taking what he wanted, any more than the nobles did? From an aristocrat’s point of view, the Guard had more right to take than anyone.

‘Why are you doing this for me?’ Guan Shan said. He couldn’t help the waver in his voice. The fear that had slipped away was slowly, slowly seeping back in. He was so conscious of Grey, sitting so close outside. He had been so close.

‘Doing this for you?’ said the Guard. ‘This is not for you. I am in need of an assistant. Any benefit this brings you is incidental.’

‘Of course,’ Guan Shan muttered. ‘I shouldn’t mistake anything you do for anyone as kindness.’

Guan Shan watched, then, as the Guard’s eyes slid past him. Guan Shan knew where he was looking in the darkness: straight at the bars. The bars that were no longer there. Could he see the edge of Grey’s cloak?

Guan Shan thought he was going to be sick. He stared ahead, and didn’t close his eyes.

‘Kindness,’ said the Guard. He sounded amused. ‘Let’s keep it that way, hm?’

Seconds passed, and then the Guard moved. There was a hand around Guan Shan’s wrist, the Guard’s fingers long and strangely warm despite the chilled night, and then Guan Shan was being pulled from the cell suddenly, the gate locking shut.

‘Stick close with me,’ said the Guard, glancing at him as he let go of his wrist and picked up the torch, orange flames flickering across his face. His eyes looked black. ‘Don’t even think about trying to run.’

‘I won’t,’ said Guan Shan numbly. Where would he go? There was nothing he could do now, and so he followed, passing cells with shadowed, sleeping forms, and guards who gave them nothing more than a curious look and a low bow to the Guard. An hour ago, he was like them, another faceless form huddled into the corner of a cell. How long would he have been there?

Guan Shan stared at the Guard’s back as he walked, at the straight gait and the broad shoulders. At the glimpse of skin at the nape of his neck. Walking felt strange after so long cooped in a cold cell, and Guan Shan had to hurry to keep up.

He longed for a bath, and for his tiny room on the West Side of Kai, with its merchant shops and its leather makers and its dingy taverns that smelled of piss and rice wine, and the laughter and stringed music that drifted up night after night through the crack in his bedroom window.

When the Guard stopped suddenly, Guan Shan’s chest fell against his back. He stumbled backwards. The Guard seemed to pay it no attention, but he turned his face slightly, so his words were thrown over his shoulder.

‘Oh, and Red?’ he said. His voice was loud, and rang out. Grey would hear it only too well if he was still there. ‘Next time your friend decides to visit the palace, tell him he’ll find himself with a noose around his neck.’

Guan Shan did not have an answer for him. When the Guard started walking again, and led him outside, to fresh air and moonlit skies, Guan Shan could only follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/post/153750510464/dawn-rising-6
> 
> Please leave kudos or share if you enjoyed!


	7. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come talk to me on Tumblr!](http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/)

In another week, Jian Yi no longer felt the aching residue of the poison. He no longer trembled in conversations with the nobles, and he no longer woke up in a sweat, with the sharp smell of fear in his room, and Zhengxi watching him from a chair in the corner of his rooms.

‘You don’t need to do this,’ he’d said, hoarse.

Zhengxi would already be moving, reaching for the cloth and basin on the side-table, and Jian Yi would have to lie against high pillows—and let Zhengxi administer him.

‘I do,’ said Zhengxi. ‘I do.’

Now, Zhengxi looked at the Prince out the corner of his eye. The dark shadows under his skin were gone, the sallowness evaporated. He had that strange, bright glow about him that his mother had, and Zhengxi realised with that same thought that he had better listen to the Empress, sitting in front of him, than staring at the flushed beauty of her son.

‘Will He Tian escort her from Noroi?’ Jian Yi was asking.

‘She will come with her own guard,’ the Empress said. She had a leg hooked over her knee, and her hands were clasped across her stomach. Sometimes, because she wore little finery and only the same, amber-inlaid circlet that Jian Yi wore, it might have been easy to forget she ruled an empire. She wore a white shirt and trousers, no different from a merchant’s attire, and her white hair was plaited over her shoulder. Zhengxi did not think he’d ever seen her age.

Sometimes the gossip of the nobles and the townspeople grew outlandish. _She_ _’s fae_ , they said. _Imagine how much blood she must drink to stay so young—so beautiful_. But the glimpses they were given were short and infrequent, and Zhengxi could see the fine lines at the corners of her mouth, and at her grey eyes. She had led an empire almost devoid of war, but Zhengxi thought, often, that that was probably harder to do.

‘The Emperor’s Road should still be busy with people returning from the Festival next week,’ said the Empress. ‘There is little risk. She can make the journey in a day.’

‘Perhaps He Tian should still—’

‘No,’ Zhengxi said, cutting Jian Yi off. ‘He needs to stay here. It’s too great a risk.’

‘I will have to be without an Imperial Guard one day, Zhengxi.’

‘Zhengxi is right,’ the Empress said, calmly. Always calm. Her anger was a terrifying thing. ‘The assassin is still at large. It is safer if you remain in Kai, with He Tian, until they are caught.’

Jian Yi rubbed the back of his neck, and Zhengxi could see the frustration settling itself in the stiff set of his shoulders, and in the downward turn of his lips. In recent years, Zhengxi had frequently accompanied the Prince on trips to the East Fields, and on state visits to Far, and to Noroi. They went on hunting trips more frequently, and on rides through the towns of the far-reaching Empire. Kai was not small, and neither was the palace complex, but Zhengxi knew that it was the knowledge of being trapped that was pressing on Jian Yi. He saw only that he could not leave; he was not seeing, more importantly, that to leave might be his end.

There were too many variables outside Kai—too many things that could go wrong; too many people that could pose a threat. If Jian Yi could not leave Kai, Zhengxi could not, really, leave either. But he was seeing what Jian Yi was not: that to flaunt the danger would be to welcome it, and now was not the time for recklessness.

‘Prince She Li will be here in a fortnight, too,’ said the Empress. ‘I’m sure his company will keep you… entertained.’

Jian Yi gave his mother a flat look, but Zhengxi could only shift at her words.

‘His visit will coincide with my sister’s, Empress?’

Her cool eyes slid to his. ‘Is that an issue?’

She did not ask questions, like Jian Yi often did, because it made the recipient uncomfortable. There was something fundamental and genuine about the way she sought out knowledge simply and without bias. But it made things more difficult for Zhengxi, since it also felt like anything he might say would be a disappointment.

‘No, Empress,’ he said. ‘It is not.’

There was a pause, and Zhengxi knew he had the gaze of both members of the Imperial House of Jian resting on him. It did not make him forthcoming.

All he could think about was She Li’s words. _She left quite the impression._ It made him grit his teeth. He knew what his sister was like: wilful, rash, easily swayed. She gave her affections too easily. Zhengxi knew what She Li could be like—how easy he could make himself into someone worthy of Zhengxi’s sister’s affections. The thought made his skin crawl, but he had to consider the political implications, too.

If any union was ever made between She Li and his sister, and the Kingdom of She ever waged war on Kaehai, where would Noroi’s loyalty lie? With Kaehai, and Jian Yi, and the Empress, whom Noroi had supported since the Empire’s infancy? Or She, and a new blood tie, his sister caught in the middle of it?

Zhengxi shook himself. She Li’s words were always goading; probably, he had said it so Zhengxi would fret over something that was going to come to nothing. He was inherently antagonistic, after all, and eager for a fall out.

Jian Yi and his mother spoke a little more, about his recovering health, and about the nobles. Zhengxi watched the exchange quietly. There were few moments where Zhengxi had not been present for these meetings between Jian Yi and the Empress, and he was reminded constantly that this is what they were: meetings. Not shared dinners or warm afternoons over tea. The Empress would sit on her throne, and Jian Yi would stand before her as any other subject, respectful, but oddly dualistic.

Zhengxi could not help but notice the strange transformation that overtook Jian Yi during these meetings: he was both himself, and suddenly, his mother. Some strange version of the man he had grown to be and the man his mother was perhaps hoping to see; or rather, a version that Jian Yi thought she wanted to see. Gone were the small jokes that he shared with Zhengxi, and that the Empress, as cold as she seemed, might have let her lips quirk upwards at. Gone was the looseness in his posture of wild, long limbs that somehow gave him a sloping sort of grace. Instead he was stiff and restrained, and the white shirt buttoned around his throat always looked tighter than usual. Everything about him seemed closed off, and distant, and Zhengxi found himself wanting to undo the buttons, and put his hand on his flesh and remind himself that Jian Yi was still warm.

Eventually, their conversation came to its natural end; they did not talk more than was needed, all talk perfunctory and purposeful, and the Empress made her final remarks to the both of them.

‘Watch over Jian Yi, Zhengxi,’ the Empress said, like her son was not standing there. ‘I trust you to keep him safe.’

And Zhengxi nodded, and said, like Jian Yi was not standing there, ‘I am in your employ in Kaehai, Empress, and while I am, he is my livelihood.’

The Empress nodded. She was empirical, and unsentimental, and this was something she would understand.

Beside him, he did not notice how Jian Yi had gone still, and quiet, and later he would wish that he had.

* * *

 

The week that Guan Shan had spent with the Imperial Guard, He Tian, was the strangest week of Guan Shan’s life.

He spent it as He Tian had said: walking through the city with him and asking questions to the locals, attending interviews with the members of the palace to ask if they remembered the details of a particular day during the Spring Festival, and attending He Tian.

The man, when Guan Shan was not with him, was constantly fulfilling duties. If he was not sleeping, he was walking a patrol over the grounds or escorting the Empress. If he was not training in the barracks before the sun had risen, he was questioning convicts at the prisons or signing their release papers—or death papers. He was a ceaseless thing, moving as if to stop would still his heart, and Guan Shan was growing used to seeing a glimpse of black slip through the door before dawn, a bed made, clothes folded, and not seeing him again until past midnight.

 _When does he sleep?_ Guan Shan asked himself, but he knew when he slept, because he could only lay awake in the small room across from He Tian’s, and wait for the click of a door, and the sound of boots falling onto wooden flooring. He could not help it. He was waiting for the night that the footsteps would pause outside Guan Shan’s door, and that a hand would rest on the handle, and Guan Shan would have to lie still and quiet in the darkness as he pulled his boots off.

But days passed, and he did nothing but return to his own bedroom, and Guan Shan would have survived another day without speaking to anyone but the servants he passed muttered conversation with in the servants quarters.

Guan Shan made stews and soups in the small kitchen of He Tian’s house, and left them covered for the Guard’s return. He had his clothes washed and the books in the unused study dusted and organised. He sharpened the spare sword that He Tian kept in the kitchen, and thought more than once about sitting in wait at midnight and running the Guard through with it.

 _And what good would that do?_ he asked himself, because he knew that his death would only be certain then, and that He Tian would likely kill him before Guan Shan could even lift the weighted length of metal, and that there was no real reason to kill him at all. He had become a servant almost voluntarily, and thoughts of murder cropped up only as a means to lull the boredom. He had to wait. He had to bide his time until his release—because he would have to release him eventually, wouldn’t he? And if he didn’t, then Guan Shan would have to flee. It wouldn’t be hard. Grey had gotten into the palace; surely Guan Shan could get out. He had a duty to his mother, money bags left on her doorstep, and a contract with Silver. Neither of them, surely, would be able to wait too long.

‘Stop sighing.’

Guan Shan glanced up from where he stood in the small living area of He Tian’s house. He Tian had returned at midday, dirt smudged on the side of his neck. He smelled of horses. It was one of the few scant moments that Guan Shan had seen him—usually the whole light of day would slip by without He Tian’s return.

He Tian stood at the low table in the kitchen, wearing a concentrated expression on his face, set behind a pair of glasses. He was chewing mint-flavoured tobacco. Guan Shan did not bother to tell him that it would ruin his teeth. Let them be ruined.

‘What are you doing?’ said Guan Shan.

The answer came swiftly: ‘That is not of your concern.’

Guan Shan rolled his eyes, and continued folding the dark ceremonial robes that he had yet to see the Imperial Guard wear. It seemed He Tian wore nothing but dark shirts and trousers and his coat. Guan Shan’s fingers were deft and fast and long as he smoothed out the fine fabrics, and he did not notice how He Tian found himself watching them. Watching him. He was thinking only how much coin he might get for a robe like this should he manage to get it down to a cloth merchant in the Bazaar.

On the table, there was an array of mortars and pestles. Crucibles. A low flame and jars of powders and a vapour seeping from a beaker that smelled of rotten eggs. Guan Shan had already opened all the windows.

‘If you’re trying to re-create the Blue Poison,’ Guan Shan said, ‘you need to boil the Foxen in salt water and strain it. You can’t just grind it to a pulp. The ingredient is the residue it leaves in the water, not the whole bulb itself.’

Guan Shan knew the moment that He Tian’s eyes flickered, unwillingly, onto him, but he did not look back at him. His voice was not tentative, but confident. It verged on arrogant.

‘Really,’ said He Tian.

‘Really,’ said Guan Shan.

Time passed, and the water over the flame reached a quiet boil as Guan Shan finished folding. He caught the sharp smell of the Foxen, its sap drawn out into the water, a strange scent like sour ginger.

‘How did you know?’

‘Know what?’ Guan Shan said. He knew what He Tian was asking him, but it was easier to do this. It shouldn’t have been, in the man’s home, his territory, but without the cold bars and the shadowed darkness of the prison tunnel, and the warm spring light flooding through the windows, it was easier. Or, rather, Guan Shan was less concerned about the repercussions of taking risks.

When his question met silence, and the dark eyes held their characteristic, unsettlingly unwavering stare, Guan Shan swallowed.

‘I read,’ he said.

‘You cannot read,’ said the Guard.

Guan Shan blinked at him. He wore a strange look on his face.

‘Why would you think that? I asked you for books in the prison.’

‘I gave you the alchemy book, and yet every time I have asked you to pass me something—a beaker, a pipette—you have given me the wrong thing.’

Guan Shan hid a smile.

Apparently, he didn't hide it very well, because the Guard was folding his arms. ‘What?’ he said. He had the flat tone of someone who was barely holding in their irritation at being left out of a secret.

‘I can read,’ Guan Shan said. ‘I know what a crucible and a beaker and a pipette is.’

‘Then why did you…’

Guan Shan saw the moment his jaw shifted, and his eyes tightened. He took off his glasses, and let them clatter on the surface of the table. He ran a hand over his face, through the hair he had unpinned when he came in and let run long down his back. Guan Shan imagined he was not used to this. Having someone be in his space—having to speak with someone. Having to do work that was not running people through with his sword.

‘I have taken in a child,’ he said.

 _Taken in. Am I a stray pet?_ Guan Shan said, ‘We’re the same age, you know.’

And this time the man did stare.

‘We were born under the same star. I read the book on your family lineage.’

‘I keep that book in my bedroom.’

‘Yes,’ said Guan Shan.

There was a pregnant pause. ‘You know,’ said He Tian. ‘There was a woman in the markets. She sells herbs. You and she both have the same hair—’

Guan Shan felt the ceramic bowl of water slip from his grasp. It shattered across the floor, soaking into the boards, a dark stain. Later he would realise why he could carry out a servant’s tasks but not be a servant: most would have fallen to their knees, perhaps prostrated themselves. Cut themselves on the ceramic shards as they braced for a blow from their master. But Guan Shan did not. He stood there, looked down at the seeping mess but not really at it, and let his fists clench at his sides.

He Tian did nothing but raise a brow.

‘Are you threatening me?’ Guan Shan said. He was intimately aware that he could not play at this level. He could not pose a risk to He Tian, or the man’s brother, a warlord who lived in a fortress on the border between She and Kaehai. This was not a game he had any stake in.

‘Threatening you?’ said He Tian. ‘No. If I were threatening you I think you would not to ask.’

Guan Shan wouldn’t. He remembered the feel of He Tian’s breath on his neck, the bruising feel of a cold wall on his cheek. ‘Then why are you speaking of her?’

‘To understand why a boy with a mother who does not seem unkind and has a good income has been spending his life on streets and in prison cells. To understand why someone who can read and understands herbalism and alchemy is a Kai thief and not a physician or a scholar.’

 _It_ _’s not that easy,_ Guan Shan thought. It was not about money and kindness. No—it was absolutely about money, but not for the reasons He Tian thought. ‘You’re the first to put me behind bars.’

‘I’m not sure who that says more about.’

Guan Shan said nothing. He didn’t care for this conversation.

‘It is my duty,’ He Tian continued. ‘To understand the men in my employ.’

‘I’m not one of your ponce guards.’

‘No. But you live in my home,’ he said, as if Guan Shan was not somehow aware that he was a resident in the Imperial Guard’s small, curiously sparse house. As if waking up in the mornings did not require a few minutes of heart-wrenching readjustment, of blinking into the darkness, of understanding why the bed beneath him was softer, and why he could smell the earthy scent of tea and mint tobacco. ‘I should make out your character more clearly.’

‘Is it clearer?’ Guan Shan ground out. His feet were wet, the cloth of his trousers around his ankles soaked; the water had pooled around him. ‘Is the— _enigma_ unravelling?’

He Tian tilted his head. ‘No,’ he said carefully, thoughtfully. Looking at Guan Shan like he was some strange creature in one of his jars—or like he was a specimen behind bars. And then, absently, half to himself, ‘I think it is getting rather more convoluted as time passes.’

* * *

 

He Tian tidied up the kitchen table as the boy— _man_ , he correct himself—went to change his clothing, soaked in hot water from the basin he had dropped. He Tian hadn’t expected that kind of reaction from him.

Then, he hadn’t expected himself to ask about the young man’s mother at all. He didn’t really care. He didn’t ask those sorts of questions of the guard units he oversaw in Kai. He didn’t ask those sorts of questions of anyone. What was he supposed to do with that sort of information? Useless and meaningless to anyone but the owner.

His fingers worked to empty the crucibles and rinse the beakers in the sink. The poison he transferred to a small, ceramic pot, and fastened the lid with a piece of cloth and a strip of fabric. The potency did not last long; in a few days he could discard it into one of the sewers that ran on the outskirts of the palace.

Upstairs, he could hear the redhead moving about, opening drawers in the bedroom he slept in. It looked no different to his own, and the clothes he had given him were simple: shirts, trousers, the buttons for fastening more than decoration. The first time He Tian had seen him in clothes that were bright, and not the dark folds of a thief’s attire, He Tian’s mind had… paused.

He was almost unrecognisable, pale skin and burnished hair offset by the white of a high-collared shirt. He had the fair skin of an aristocrat, the high cheekbones of one too. If the look of cynicism was not a permanent fixture on his face, He Tian might not have doubted that he would blend in with the palace and its gilded furniture and grand halls and amber.

He Tian had allowed himself to briefly indulge in the imagination, because it would never happen, of setting an amber circlet on the crown of his head, brushing back lengthening red hair, cheeks flushed, the parting of stained red lips, a look in his brown eyes that—he had to stop himself.

He Tian shook his head as he put away the book on alchemy, and straightened the chairs at the table. He did not need him here. There was nothing really that he could do for him. He could not understand why he had thought this would be of use, and he was not used to acting on impulse.

He glanced at the Blue Poison sitting in its jar.

He was distinctly aware that he had let a man into his home with an understanding of some of the deadliest poisons in his existence, and he was not sure what it said about the redhead that the both of them were still alive.

 _He must be smart,_ He Tian thought absently. _Or very, very stupid._

After a few moments, he appeared again, wearing a fresh pair of trousers. He had his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and He Tian could see freckles, and the fine red hairs across his arms. They were the wiry, loosely muscled arms of someone who was used to clinging to roofs and hanging from pagodas. His fingers were the long, nimble appendages of a pickpocket.

_If he were a noble, you would think them elegant as a musician's._

He did not look at He Tian as he crouched down in front of him, and, for a moment, He Tian’s mind went blank. But then he watched as he pressed a cloth into the boards to soak up the water He Tian hadn’t cleaned up yet. How, carefully, he was picking at the shards and placing them into the cloth.

‘Let me,’ said He Tian, fists clenched at his sides. ‘You’ll cut yourself.’

He raised his eyebrows—b _y all means—_ and straightened from his crouch.

He Tian mopped up the rest of the water until a light stain circled the wood, left to dry on its own, and he held the shards in his hand, discarding them into the cloth the redhead had left on the table.

It was then that he noticed the strand of red running down his fingers. The cut was shallow; he’d barely felt it. His hands were already littered with small scars, gifted by his brother when they’d dueled together as children.

‘You’ll cut yourself,’ the redhead said flatly, looking at the blood.

He Tian watched as he fetched another cloth, dipped it in water, and let his fingers wrap around He Tian’s wrist.

He Tian went still. Breathing, suddenly, became difficult. He had reached out, like it meant nothing.

He attended him with the utilitarian care of a physician, eyes looking for small shards of ceramic. His hands were warm. His skin was impossibly soft. He Tian, distantly, thought that he should have had calluses.

He Tian caught the moment when the redhead realised what he was doing. His whole body seized, as if a key had been turned, and every part of him had locked itself up. Seconds passed. He Tian could not bring himself to move.

Slowly, he let his hand fall from He Tian’s wrist. Slower, he took a step back. His footsteps were soundless.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and sounded breathless, eyes wide. He looked like he was shaking. ‘I didn’t mean—I’ve overstepped myself.’

He was taking small steps back, and He Tian wondered what he was seeing in his eyes that made him do it. He realised he did not want to frighten him. Maybe, later, he was glad of it, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel it now.

‘Wait,’ He Tian said. He thought his voice sounded strange. He said, ‘I’m not usually so careless,’ and lifted his hand up. The cut was thin and wouldn’t scar. ‘Thank you.’

He stared at He Tian, and He Tian, too, was trying to understand if the words had really come from him.

‘Guan Shan,’ he said, with a jerk of his head like the words had tumbled from him, helpless, unintended.

He Tian blinked. ‘Pardon?’

‘My name. It’s Guan Shan.’

‘I see,’ said He Tian. The boy—man— _Guan Shan—_ tidied away the bloodied cloth and the broken shards and the wet towels. He Tian stared at him. His hand still felt warm.

* * *

 

‘What’s wrong?’ Zhengxi said, a few days after the audience he and Jian Yi had had with the Empress. 

His sister would be here in a number of days, but Zhengxi couldn’t think about that. Instead, he could only think how Jian Yi had spoken to him with a strange reticence. How he had withdrawn himself into overseeing papers and documents, piled in the office in his apartments. They were treatises and contracts and ambassadorial communications between She and Kaehai, and Jian Yi had been reading them as he was about to find something in them—subterfuge? A slyly hidden plot at usurpation?—that no one else had.

Zhengxi wouldn’t have questioned the furor with which he threw himself into the task, or how he burned a candle a night staying up late reading, except that it came at the expense of ignoring Zhengxi.

Zhengxi glanced at him in the mirror of Jian Yi’s rooms as he dressed. It was the only time he had been able to catch him; the rest of the time, he locked himself away in the offices, and Zhenxgi was left to roam the palace. The day before, he went riding. The day before that, he willed a day away in the Palace Library. The silence of it all was too much. Zhengxi did not often realise how _loud_ Jian Yi could be, and he did not mean that he shouted and made his voice heard. Rather, his presence made itself present to Zhengxi in a way that begged attention that Zhengxi only too easily gave.

And it was not because he was a prince.

‘What do you mean?’ said Jian Yi, fixing the buttons at the wrists of his shirt. His hair, growing long, was tied up. Pulled away from his face, it had the strange effect of making him both looking heart-achingly young, and regretfully old at the same time. Zhengxi was not sure who exactly he was looking at.

‘You’ve been strange with me these past few days,’ said Zhengxi.

‘Have I?’

‘Jian Yi.’

‘I’m fine,’ Jian Yi said, sighing.

‘Is it the poison?’ said Zhengxi, frowning now, because he had been naive enough not to really consider it before. ‘Are you not well? The cambermaid said your bowels—’

‘The _stars,_ Zhengxi,’ Jian Yi cut in, exasperated, eyes wide. ‘I said I was fine.’

‘Really?’

‘Really,’ said Jian Yi. There was a sly hint to his tone, that said simply repeating a word did not really make it true, but that Zhengxi could believe in it if he wanted to. ‘I’ve wanted to be prepared for the Prince of She’s next visit. There’s no need to be quite so concerned. After all, I’m only, what was it, a _livelihood_ , am I not?’

Zhenxgi frowned at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

Jian Yi was staring at him, and it was a moment before Zhengxi realised why he had used that word. It had been on his tongue only days before. He had called Jian Yi his livelihood in front of his mother, and his mother had seemed pleased with that explanation.

‘Is that what this is all about?’ Zhengxi said.

Jian Yi moved wordlessly to the vanity table pressed against the wall, sitting on the carved stool. Another mirror, grey eyes still managing to reach Zhengxi’s. His expression was still in the reflection.

‘You know I didn’t mean it like—like I didn’t care,’ said Zhengxi, words spilling from him. He was bewildered. ‘Like this meant nothing more to me than that. I said it—like that, because I needed your mother to be reassured. She wouldn’t understand the sentiment of it if I said anything else. If I explained to her that you were more than some—means to an end.’ The silence was choking. ‘Say you understand. Please.’

‘I understand,’ said Jian Yi, quiet and curt.

The air between them was thick, and charged. ‘Do you?’

An answer didn’t come, and Zhengxi moved to the stool Jian Yi sat on, and turned it, wooden legs scraping across the floor. He leaned in, and put a hand on the back of the chair, crowding Jian Yi in. With his other hand, he rested the fingers on the sharp line of Jian Yi’s jaw, confusingly soft to the touch.

‘Jian Yi…’

‘Don’t,’ Jian Yi said, voice trembling. He was looking away but did not move his head. ‘Do not do this to me.’

‘Do what?’

‘This. Pretend you are interested more than is appropriate. Pretend that you—pretend that you would want this.’

Zhengxi felt the warmth in him, some deep well. It had been filled, over the years, with flashes of image and emotion. Jian Yi waking under his hand after a night spent under the stars; a flash of white hair streaming behind him as they rode through the East Fields. horses cantering, eyes full with laughter; Jian Yi, wearing his diadem for the first time, fifteen, at his Coming of Age ceremony. A wet cloth across soft, trembling, pale skin. A tea cup. Beauty meant something different when Zhengxi looked at Jian Yi now.

He said, slowly, ‘Who said I didn’t want this?’

‘ _Stop it_ , Zhengxi.’ And this time Jian Yi did move. Pushed himself forward until Zhengxi was forced to move away, to give him space to stand and start moving about the room.

‘Jian Yi—’

‘I have been in love with you for more than ten years, Zhengxi. Since I was a boy. Quite in love. You know that. And yet you, continuously, pushed me away. For fifteen years.’

Zhengxi swallowed. ‘People can't change how they feel?’

‘You were quite firm in your opinion of me. In your feelings.’

Zhengxi remembered the first time. When he had struck him. And they had stared at one another in the horror of what he had just done. And at first, Zhengxi thought, for one awful moment, that Jian Yi would tell him to leave and never come back. That perhaps he might go to his mother and have him executed for harming the Prince because he did not yet realise that things were not so black and white. And instead Jian Yi had been the one to leave. To walk out with a face flamed red and a head bowed, pale hair falling around his face. And Zhengxi, quietly, had thought how the whole thing was such an awful mess. _Regret_ had not been the word for it.

‘I was young.’

‘People married younger than fifteen, Zhengxi. Your sister is barely in her sixteenth year. Don’t—do not toy with me like that.'

‘You condemn me because I did not love you in such a way,’ Zhengxi said, soft, ‘and now that I might, I’m not allowed to feel something for you?’

‘You'll change your mind,’ Jian Yi said. 'You'll realise you can’t have what you thought you did. Understand, if you please, that I’m not quite a woman. You’ll regret it.'

‘Does being the future emperor give you prophetic powers?’ said Zhengxi. He knew Jian Yi wasn’t a woman. Sometimes, he carried about a strange androgyny to him. Teetered on _beautiful_ more than he ever did towards _handsome_. But that didn’t make him less of a man. If anything, it made him more. The power he held in his looks, in his image, was entirely masculine.

‘This isn’t—this isn't a moment for teasing, Zhengxi.’

Zhengxi shook his head. ‘What exactly do you want from me that will make you believe that my feelings are not what they used to be? That—that I want you.’ He couldn’t put his finger on when it had happened. When, exactly, the realisation had hit him that this was a thing he might want. He could not tell if it was when Jian Yi had fallen slack and still in his arms at the Festival. He could not tell if it was the moment he had seen this pale, glowing boy peering from behind his mother’s throne fifteen years ago. He knew only, with quite a lot of certainty, that he wanted this.

Jian Yi’s look was unreadable, body half-turned towards him, half-towards the door. Like he was torn. And then he came at him, long legs striding, and suddenly his hand was between Zhengxi’s thighs, and the other was wrapped around his throat, pressure just shy of bruising.

‘You want me?’ he ground out. His lips, suddenly, were pressing hard against Zhengxi’s, and there was nothing gentle about it and nothing nice and it was teeth knocking together and warring tongues and it was invasive and—there was a sound of protest in Zhengxi’s throat, and he was pulling away, and forcing a space between them.

Heaving lungs. Anger in eyes that was contempt and betrayal.

‘Yes,’ Jian Yi said, looking into them. ‘I thought so.’

‘Jian Yi—’

But Jian Yi was leaving, and Zhengxi couldn’t tell him that of course he didn’t want it. Of course he didn’t want _that_. What he had wanted was something that was soft. What he had wanted was Jian Yi quiet and trembling under his hand, and coming undone, not this wild, forceful storm of a thing. He thought that, surely, they could have something like that.

 _I_ _’m a prince,_ he thought, mockingly, because it was something Jian Yi would say. _Surely I can have all that I want._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	8. Intruder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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‘I am leading the patrol this evening. I will be late. You may entertain yourself until I return.’

Guan Shan glanced up from the book he was reading. He Tian was buttoning up his long coat, high around his throat. He pulled his gloves on over long, pale fingers, and Guan Shan thought only how often he saw his hands.

It made him realise, now, what kind of look he was being given of the Imperial Guard that others did not see. When he left the walls of his small home on the palace grounds, he was buttoned and cutting in his dark clothing. Guan Shan saw him when he was unveiled. How many people could say the same?

The thought hit him, intimately.

‘You’ll let me leave your rooms?’ he said. There wasn’t much else in the house to entertain.

‘You are already allowed to leave the rooms.’

‘Only upon your orders.’

He Tian conceded. ‘You may leave of your own will,’ he said. And then, oddly, because Guan Shan indeed had only left on his orders, ‘You’re rather well-behaved for a street urchin.’

Guan Shan bared his teeth. ‘How well you’ve trained me in such little time.’

‘Don’t kill anyone, or steal anything,’ He Tian said, sighing. He picked up the sword that he had been cleaning that afternoon, and it fitted neatly into the scabbard at his hip with a well-practiced slide. ‘And don’t think about leaving. I will know, and you will not like it when I find you.’

‘Won’t I?’ Guan Shan said. Because he thought that sounded like a challenge.

He Tian’s parting look was faintly amused, but the warning was there as he opened the door. ‘Behave,’ he said, and the door clicked shut.

 

* * *

 

_Behave_ , Guan Shan thought, with vague, derisive amusement. He snorted. 

There were knives in the kitchen. The Blue Poison sat on one of the open kitchen shelves, its potency fading but still worth something. Upstairs, he knew He Tian kept another sword. There was a box beneath the staircase with nails and woodworking tools. He Tian had enough ingredients that Guan Shan could prove just how much his mother had taught him as a child.

But in the end he didn’t touch anything. There was nothing to lose, he knew, but he knew his residence here couldn’t last long. Whatever use he had to He Tian would be fading soon. Whatever interest or fanciful whim He Tian had acted on would be losing its momentum. Soon, he’d throw Guan Shan back out onto the street without so much as a goodbye.

Guan Shan woke waiting for the moment that He Tian would be standing at the end of a bed, and throw a bag at him. And Guan Shan would leave, and not look back.

For now he would enjoy the warmth of his lodgings, and the free meals, and the comfortable, expensive clothing. He would enjoy the books he held in his hands rather than knives or other people’s pockets. He would enjoy that He Tian, really, wanted him to do very little, and Silver had always expected him to do a lot. Too much. He would enjoy it knowing that he would have to return to the roofs with their loose tiles and low gables, the cobbled streets with their swarm of merchants and travellers and whores. He would go back to being Red, and putting money on the step of his mother’s storefront, and he would forget that, for a while, he had been Guan Shan.

Guan Shan left the house. With nothing to do, and nowhere to go, he let himself get lost in the gardens of the palace grounds.

He hadn’t known how big they were.

He’d seen maps of them before, when Silver thought he should know— _just in case,_ but there was nothing about the scale of the place. The grounds were a huge, sprawling mass of separate gardens, each one bigger than the last. Some had ponds the size of lakes, connected like islands by small, iron bridges. Some had small pavilions fitted with carved cherry-wood benches or larger ones fitted with space for a tea ceremony.

Trees and flowers lay across the grounds. A week ago they were smothered in a blanket of pink petals, covering the windowsills and the roofs of the palace buildings, but now the small buds were on the trees were blooming, and a warming spring breeze had brushed the blossom away into the river that moved lazily through the gardens.

Soon, the sun was setting, sky streaked with pink clouds and a deep red hue, and Guan Shan’s shadow followed him darkly through the grounds.

He passed a few courtiers, giving them short bows, ignoring the curious gazes. For all they knew, he was a court dignitary, some representative from the East Fields where short hair was not so uncommon. He could not help but wonder what they would have made of him if he had not been dressed in He Tian’s simple finery. No doubt, their gazes would not fall on him so kindly.

 _What if I see the Empress?_ he thought with dry amusement. Better, what if he saw the Prince?

‘You bow,’ He Tian had said, when he’d asked. ‘Low.’

‘Should I prostrate myself?’

‘If you wish.’

‘I was joking.’

He Tian gave him a long look. ‘They are not like you,’ he said.

‘Are they like you?’ Guan Shan had asked.

He Tian hadn’t replied, and they’d known the answer: He Tian wasn’t, really, like anyone.

Once, he might have met He Tian on better terms. Once, he might have walked the gardens as a guest, and He Tian might have inclined his head in a way that was not mocking and derisory. Once, he might not have been a thief, and He Tian would not have to remind himself that he was.

Once, things might have been different.

He scolded himself lightly. It was fruitless to torment himself with _could have been_ ’s, to think of a present and a past that he might have had—that he could have had. Maybe, that he should have had. But still the smell of smoke clung to his clothes when he closed his eyes, and still he had left his mother without a goodbye, and still he had committed himself to something that he could not turn his back on.

Kai thieves were the most honourable of the dishonourable in the Empire, but Guan Shan couldn’t help but feel like it was not something to be proud of. Grey would have been proud of it, but he had grown up in poverty and had the choice between the fields or the streets.

In the fields, you might burn under the sun and ruin your back. At least in the streets you might die with some memoir of quiet triumph.

He could hear late bird song now, and for a while he sat on a small bench, intricately carved like woven cloth, until the light faded enough that he could not make out the characters on the pages of his book.

He Tian had given it to him, days ago, leaving it at the end of his bed when Guan Shan had run an errand for him.

‘You didn’t have to,’ he’d said.

He Tian shrugged. ‘I had someone fetch it from the Bazaar. It was not at my own expense.’

‘Of course,’ said Guan Shan. That was how, he realised, they did things. Sentiment felt oddly placed. Concern was a discomfort. It was easier to pretend that nothing existed between them, that Guan Shan had not reached out for He Tian’s hand.

 _I_ _’m assuming he feels anything at all,_ Guan Shan thought.

He closed his book when the light became a dull, shadowed thing. The gardens were empty, and Guan Shan could only hear the slight lulling of the river and the rustle of the trees. In the dark, the grounds took on a different quality. Guan Shan wasn’t afraid—he had walked the streets of Kai at night, winding passages and gargoyles that looked like monsters waiting to snatch him up—but he had the feeling that the gardens were perhaps not as a safe as they might seem.

He sighed, and rose to his feet, stomach panging with hunger. He Tian would not return probably until he was asleep, but he didn’t mind cooking for him. It was like alchemy, and herbalism, a medicine of its own, only the intention was often less lethal.

He was crossing the nearest bridge when he heard it.

It was the sound of footsteps, softly placed so as not to attract attention. It was the footwork of someone who kept to shadows, and Guan Shan felt his ears prick. It was how, after he was caught following a tourist through an alleyway, Guan Shan had learned to move.

He flattened himself against the trunk of a cherry tree when he heard the quiet pressing, underfoot, of leaves trodden into the grass, and for a moment he had to still his heart.

It had not been a month since he had last worked the roofs or the streets; he couldn’t be that out of practice.

After a few seconds, he allowed himself a glance around the trunk—and stilled.

They were dressed like a shadow, dark cloak and a faced hidden beneath its folds, and they moved like something prowling. Except… There was something off about it. Stilted.

Guan Shan narrowed his eyes, turning himself around so his hands were on the tree, his side pressed up against it. He would be so easily seen here.

‘Grey?’ he whispered.

Too many things happened at once: their head shot up, and they started moving closer to him, and Guan Shan noticed the glint of a sword at their side, because their hands were now tugging on the handle and sliding it from the scabbard.

‘Shit,’ Guan Shan muttered.

He started running.

He could hear their footsteps; his ears were too trained for the sound, and he could tell, too, that they were close. Suddenly, the grounds seemed too empty, the trees too sparse.

Where were the guards on patrol? Why were there no guard stations in each of the separate gardens?

He knew, as his skin started to prick with sweat, the they were not needed. This was not a border territory. These were the palace grounds, the safest parts of the city other than the Empress’ bedrooms . No one was stupid enough either to be taking a walk through the gardens at night with only a full moon to leak bright white light down onto the grounds.

Once, he might have stopped, maybe climbed one of the trees, lying in wait. But he didn’t know the terrain; he didn’t know the layout of the gardens like he knew the sloping roofs with their easy holds, and the narrow, cobbled streets of Kai. It was too open here. He had no knives stowed away in the folds of a sleeved cloak, and on his feet he wore soft leather boots that were too loud to muffle movement.

Guan Shan could hear his breathing, sharp and heavy as he made sudden turns, ducking beneath tree branches and staying away from the edges of the ponds where the moonlight seemed to light him up. He could hear too, the sound of stymied footsteps pounding behind him, heavy-footed. 

Someone who could be stealthy when they were slow, but did not know how to run lightly, too. They were new at this. Guan Shan realised this only distantly, too panicked to consider it with much thought. The sound of branches snapping underfoot and the iron of the bridges thrumming under heavy footsteps was sending shocks of adrenaline through him that he didn’t miss. He didn’t miss running from something that could so easily catch him.

Guan Shan hadn’t run for nearly a month, but he felt the usual rhythm flood back to him: sharp arm movements like pistons, legs springing fast and light over bridges and patches of uneven ground, torso still and tight as he ran—

—and collided.  

He felt the air knocked from him as he hit something—hard.

He barely had time to cry out when he grew aware of a body pressed up against him, holding him in a vice-like grip.

An arm around him, around his stomach, around his throat. And a voice, warm breath at his ear.

‘Are you an imbecile or do you just seek trouble?’

Guan Shan couldn’t explain the relief that flooded through him. Helplessly, he fell against him, relaxed into him like it was a danger, but a danger that he wouldn’t have minded. Not shadow men and readied swords.

Guan Shan swallowed, trying to catch his breath. His lungs didn’t move fast enough, and his pulse was racing wild beneath his skin. ‘I wasn’t—’

‘You _honestly_ thought you could escape?’ He Tian said, so close that Guan Shan could hear the sound of his voice through the vibration of his chest. ‘While I was on patrol?’

Guan Shan’s head was shaking, a quick, panicked turn, and his realised now how hard his heart was beating. How loud it sounded in the silence that was filled with only the sounds of their breathing and the distant sound of boots from patrolling guards. Where had they been before?

‘I wasn’t escaping,’ he managed to say. ‘A man—there was a man in the gardens. Not a guard. He had a sword and I thought—’

‘A sword?’ He Tian said.

And then he let him go, and Guan Shan’s back started to feel cold, and He Tian was standing in front of him, his expression was unreadable. ‘You’re sure,’ he said.

‘I’m sure. He pulled it out of a scabbard.’

‘He?’

‘It—it seemed like a man but the gait—’

‘—was slightly off,’ He Tian finished for him, frowning. He was looking off, behind Guan Shan like there was something to see in the pitch darkness that had suddenly descended.

Guan Shan shook his head. ‘How did you—?’

‘Go back to the palace. Stay inside.’

‘But I—’

‘Go,’ He Tian said, giving him a shove that was not gentle towards the complex of palace buildings. He did not tell him a third time, and his coat, unbuttoned, flared behind him as he headed into the gardens, boots crunching into the gravel, and Guan Shan thought he looked a little like Death.

It did not stop some small, minute part of him feeling like he should tell him to be careful.

 

* * *

 

‘He was _in_ the palace?’

‘I believe so, Your Imperial Majesty.’

‘You believe so? Is that—is that a yes?’

‘There were reports, Empress. I searched the gardens but I could find nothing.’

The Empress gritted her teeth, the slight flexing of a pale jaw. It was the closest look to a lack of composure that He Tian had seen on her. He watched as she moved back and forth across the living room of her apartments, feet bare, shirt untucked from her trousers and falling to her thighs. It was unbuttoned at her throat.

There was a fire lit, and He Tian saw the signs of an evening’s work interrupted, papers and inkwells strewn across the desk against the wall. A clear glass of golden liquor glinted in the firelight.

He Tian suspected that the night had been young for her, and that now she would not sleep at all.

‘And those reports were reliable?’

He Tian opened his mouth. Closed it. Reliable from a virtual prisoner of the palace? How was he to describe what Guan Shan was? He realised, with a startled blink, that he had not questioned it. What would Guan Shan have to gain by such a claim? It could have been some wild excuse to cover up a foiled escape, but the pulse He Tian had felt in Guan Shan’s throat had been wild, his pupils blown wide as they stared up at him in the darkness.

That kind of fear had been real. He Tian couldn’t accept that he was that good a liar.

‘I believe—Yes, Empress,’ he said. ‘They are reliable.’

She dragged a hand over her face, murmured something to herself. ‘I want the whole palace locked down. No one is to leave or enter until the man is caught. Every individual on these grounds should have their entry permit inspected. I want any temporary guests to be questioned. Carefully.’

‘It is already taking place, Your Majesty. Every guard in my employ has been roused and is on duty. We have the palace secure.’

She looked at him. ‘I wonder only now, then, why you are still standing here.’

He Tian let the comment brush off him. He bowed, deeply, swiftly, and left.

 

* * *

 

When He Tian saw Zhengxi, his look was one of bizarre relief, and Zhengxi felt himself pause to be on the end of it.

The Imperial Guard looked no different than usual, wrapped up in the impenetrable darkness of his clothes. But his eyes, as He Tian drew closer, were fixed on him in a way that, usually, they were not. His look was not the one of dry, detached amusement when he listened to court antics or entertained Jian Yi’s frequent tirades.

Instead, it was intense, and Zhengxi felt the hair on his body raise up.

‘He Tian,’ said Zhengxi.

He Tian did not bother with pleasantries. He did not ask why he was walking around the palace as dawn approached. ‘Where is the Prince?’

Zhengxi blinked. ‘In his rooms, I suspect,’ he said, not caring to mention that he and Jian Yi had barely spoken for a week. He still felt the bruising pressure on his lips. ‘It’s late.’

‘You suspect?’ He Tian said, and for a moment he sounded like the Empress. ‘We have been looking for an intruder around the grounds.’

Zhengxi stared. ‘An intruder,’ he said. His words stuck somewhere in his throat. ‘You caught them?’

‘No,’ He Tian said.

And they looked at each other. And then they ran.

 

* * *

 

Jian Yi’s rooms were on the other side of the palace, up two flights of stairs and nestled in one of the rear rooms that held a wide balcony overlooking the gardens. It meant that by the time they reached there, almost fifteen minutes had past, and the sun was rising and casting a golden glow through the palace windows.

It meant that when they reached the doors Zhengxi had to wait, just for a moment, because he knew how the room would be lit up, how it would glow, and he couldn’t bare for the sight of it if—

Zhengxi shook his head. It wasn’t possible. He refused to accept it.

He Tian pushed open the door, and Zhengxi followed him inside.

And stared.

 _He_ _’s alive_ , some small part of him whispered, but the rest of him was trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Jian Yi, loose and immodest in a chair facing the bed. The figures in the bed, bodies joined, slick with sweat. They barely stuttered as the door opened, but then they caught sight of He Tian, and the boys scrambled to pull the sheets around them.

Silent seconds ticked past.

Jian Yi, chin propped in a hand, sighed. ‘Leave us,’ he said. ‘I will have coin sent to you.’

Zhengxi did not move as they pulled no clothing without fastening the buttons, and left. One was fair as snow, with hair just as pale. The other had a darker colouring. If Zhengxi squinted, it might almost look like they were—

‘I was enjoying that,’ said Jian Yi. He wore no obvious signs of arousal; his cheeks were not flushed, his chest did not rise and fall with quickening breath.

‘There was—an intruder,’ Zhengxi managed to say. ‘In the gardens.’

‘I haven’t seen anyone,’ said Jian Yi. ‘I’ve been here all night.’

‘With them,’ said Zhengxi.

Jian Yi’s gaze was still.

‘What are you doing,’ said Zhengxi. _What was that?_ What strange, voyeuristic tendencies had Jian Yi begun to indulge in?

‘Well, if I cannot lie with someone of my choosing, I should at least get to see someone else fuck.’

Zhengxi flinched at the word. He said the word like he spoke everything, in his artful, royal Kaehaian accent. That somehow made it worse.

He became aware of He Tian then, beside him, watching the whole exchange in silence. What did he make of this? Zhengxi imagined he probably thought nothing of it. He seemed endlessly aware of everything that life had to offer, until nothing became a surprise. Nothing was startling. Not even this.

‘You are well,’ said He Tian, voice plain, ‘so I will leave you. I will have guards stationed outside your room. Do not leave your chambers until myself or another of the Imperial Guard informs you that the palace is free from the threat.’ He gave a short bow and headed towards the open door. ‘I am sure the Prince of Noroi can attend you in the meantime.’

Zhengxi made a sound. ‘He Tian—’

The door clicked shut.

 

* * *

 

Zhengxi turned slowly to look at Jian Yi, watching him from the armchair. His gaze was still, the kind of look that Zhengxi felt he had to steel himself for. Gather himself and brace for whatever Jian Yi was willing to throw at him. He was temperamental, and Zhengxi wasn’t sure he could handle that right now.

‘What are you doing?’ he said again.

‘Sitting and waiting for the palace to be searched.’ Jian Yi’s tone said he knew perfectly well what Zhengxi had meant.

Zhengxi closed his eyes.

Jian Yi said, with something like a sigh, ‘They were giving me company.’

‘Company,’ said Zhengxi. ‘They could have slit your throat in your bed.’

‘They came by recommendation of Yu Ming. I think I was quite free from assassination.’

‘Yu Ming,’ said Zhengxi, ‘who is considering a proposal from a noble of She.’

Jian Yi flicked his fingers on the armrest, as if batting the words away with a minute gesture. ‘I’m not sure that treason and regicide is what you’re concerned about.’

Zhengxi stared at him. ‘You’re right,’ he said. He felt himself move; felt himself stand in front of Jian Yi until he was looking down on him as he had a week before. Gold light streamed through the windows, and settled in Jian Yi’s eyes. He put a hand on Jian Yi’s cheek, thumb brushing over the arch of his cheekbone, arrogantly beautiful. For a moment Jian Yi’s eyes closed, and he pressed into the touch, but the image of it came with the feeling that this was a temporary thing. That Jian Yi was enjoying it for the brief moments before it shattered, and broke into some sad tragedy of loss.

Zhengxi’s thumb brushed across his lip, and Jian Yi pulled away, leaning back in his chair again, cut off from Zhengxi. His hand fell limp at his side.

‘You shouldn’t do that,’ Jian Yi said wryly, quiet, a strange flush creeping across his neck and his cheeks and it was fascinating to watch. ‘I’m the Prince.’

‘Well I think we both know there’s a lot I shouldn’t have done, Jian Yi.’ He said, ‘I think there’s a lot to this that we shouldn’t be doing. That we’ve been doing for ten years.’

Jian Yi laughed, and that too was a quiet, strange thing. Zhengxi stared at him.

‘Are you drunk?’ he said suddenly.

‘What?’

‘Are you drinking? I told you not drink, Jian Yi. Poison is easier to hide in alcohol. After last time you don’t know—’

‘It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m alive, aren’t I?’

‘And you won’t be for much longer if you don’t start listening to what I _tell_ you to do.’

Something flashed across Jian Yi’s face as he looked up at him. ‘Well perhaps I’m tired of _listening_ to you, Zhengxi. Perhaps I no longer _want_ to live in the carefully constructed life my mother has made. That you _continuously_ insist I adhere to.’

‘We do so because we know that’s what’s best for you,’ Zhengxi said.

‘Is it? Really? Because someone still poisoned me. Someone _still_ got into the gardens, and I’m no safer with you beside me or not.’

 _Beside me or not_ , Zhengxi thought, and he felt a pang. ‘It is protocol that you have a companion, Jian—’

‘Protocol, protocol. Who cares one single _fuck_ about protocol anymore, Zhengxi?’

‘The palace. The people. They need to see structure to believe it exists.’

‘And they’re looking to someone like me? A useless prince who thinks more about his stupid advisor than he thinks about his own people? The _stars_ , Zhengxi. Does that not make them entirely doomed?’

‘You care about the people, Jian Yi. You have always cared about the people. You have done more for them than most _emperors_ do in their whole reign. They say you are benign. They say you are compassionate. They say you are a different and only ever in a way that beckons them to you. How many people are ready to welcome their next ruler with welcome _arms_ , Jian Yi? How many?’

‘They have no choice but to welcome me,’ Jian Yi said bitterly. ‘I am the heir apparent.’

‘And for how much longer until the Empress no longer has an heir at all? Be—be _sensible_ about how you live your life in this palace.’ He swallowed. ‘Be sensible about who you—who you let into your bed.’

‘I didn’t lie with them.’

‘I know.’

‘No,’ Jian Yi said faintly, talking to Zhengxi but not really _talking_ to him. His voice was so terribly whimsical. ‘You don’t. I only watched. I thought they moved so beautifully with one another. Their colouring was wonderful.’

‘Jian Yi…’

‘You are dismissed, Zhengxi,’ he said again, and his skin was still flushed but his eyes were sharp and his voice hard. Zhengxi wondered how he could be such a soft, pliant thing in one moment, and so hard in the next. Zhengxi wondered if it was something he had instilled in him—that change from boy to future ruler that happened so suddenly—if it had been his mother, perhaps. If, really, it was just him.

‘Jian Yi—’

‘I’m alive. There is no need for you to be in my chambers this early in the morning.’ He said, in a different voice, ‘People might talk.’

Zhengxi didn’t remind him that he used to spend nights in his chambers. Sometimes would not return to his own room for a week because they would share a bed or Zhengxi would sleep on the cot in the corner of his room, and it had never been a strange thing. Perhaps, now, he realised how the maids and the guards might have spoken about it, but he had never cared.

Now, the only thing he really cared about now was that Jian Yi was using that wry tone against him, that barely tolerant voice that he used with people like Zhengxi’s _sister_ and Prince Li; people he didn’t like and thought were quite stupid but never _told_ them that. Never told them because he didn’t need to—because it was enough just to hear it. And, too, it was something that was petty and childish and a little crude, and that Jian Yi could laugh at.

But when he laughed at Zhengxi’s sister when she made her visits it was because he saw something in her, something pitiable, that he recognised in himself. Saw that he could be like her so easily if he needed to be.

And Jian Yi was laughing too at the Prince of She because he saw in him what he could have been, and how life had been just a little more unfair to him than it had been to Jian Yi. Maybe he wasn’t even pitying them but pitying himself. Because at least they got to be a little cruel and a little spiteful and a little unpleasant—enough for him to be able to laugh at them—but all it did was show the freedom they had in being. In not having to monitor their words and their behaviour so precisely as Jian Yi did. They had the power to be unkind and choose, almost, what sort of person they shaped into. And Jian Yi didn’t get that.

So when he was laughing at them it was, really, because he was laughing at himself.

There was nothing Zhengxi could do about that closed-off introspection. About that self-consciousness that Jian Yi must have been consciously aware of. Because there were things, sometimes, that Zhengxi could not help him with at all. That only Jian Yi would be able to handle on his own.

So he left him in his chambers, alone, with soiled sheets that had become someone else’s, sun too high now to allow him sleep. And Zhengxi felt sorry for him while he loved him. And it was a very hard thing to do.

 

* * *

 

He Tian oversaw the questioning, the careful words for the nobles, the harsh eyes for the merchants and servants. He worked through the rooms of the palace, and then through the barracks, and through the kitchens and servants’ quarters. Endless questioning, endless cross-referencing. He Tian had sheafs of paper filled with reports and accounts that he would need to check through in meticulous detail. But he knew, even as he made his way back to the barracks, where the guards were all present and lay in wait for his command, that he would find nothing.

How could a man come into the palace at night and not be seen? How would he get passed the sentries on duty at the entry-points? How would he not be seen at the stations along the wall that ran around the farthest edge of the palace grounds? He Tian shook his head.

‘Who did you say reported it to you?’

He Tian didn’t look at Bai Yang as they made their way around the edge of a courtyard and towards the barracks. The sky was streaked with pink hidden behind a gauzy grey, birds starting to quieten, animals skittering between the bushes and up the trunks of cherry trees and magnolia and maidenhair. Night was encroaching upon them again, and He Tian had not slept in almost two days.

‘I didn’t,’ he said.

Bai Yang looked at him, and He Tian did not look back. He could feel the weight of the man’s gaze darting over his face, still determined that one day there was something that he might be able to understand. But they had known one another for almost ten years, and really he was no closer to understanding He Tian than he liked to think he was.

‘The boy that you took in…’

‘He’s not a boy. He was born beneath the same star as us both.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

Bai Yang seemed like he was steeling himself. ‘I haven’t… quite figured out what use he is to you. Why you have—brought him in. I didn’t think you were one for pity.’

‘It’s not pity,’ said He Tian. ‘There is a matter concerning the Prince.’

Bai Yang cast him a side-glance. ‘Related to the intruder?’

‘Perhaps,’ said He Tian. ‘I thought it might be useful to have someone with his mind contributing.’

‘Someone who thinks like vagrant?’

 _A vagrant?_ He Tian thought. And then, _Does he even think like that?_ So far, Guan Shan had done little that He Tian expected him to. He had not been violent, or particularly difficult. Any irritation he had cause He Tian came with a wry, unwilling amusement. But He Tian knew already that Guan Shan was not like he should be. Not like those like him were expected to be. When he was barely sixteen, He Tian remembered arresting younger boys like Guan Shan who had been far worse. Spitting in the faces of the guards, throwing knives at any chance they had. Guan Shan had taken his capture remarkably… well.

He did not even speak like one of them—and he read, and he cooked.

‘Yes,’ He Tian said, because the silence had stretched too long, and Bai Yang was beginning to look at him strangely.

‘He seemed very…’ Bai Yang shrugged, and ran a hand through coiled, ear-length hair the colour of chestnuts. He was as tall as He Tian, but broad and thickly muscled everywhere that He Tian was lithe and lean. He had the darker colouring and the sizing of the people from the East Fields. ‘Strange that a life on the streets should make him look younger when it makes most others look so much older.’

‘You speak from experience?’ He Tian said.

‘My mother is a priest in the city. Sometimes she would provide food and build shelter in the winters. I would help. When I could.’

‘Did you see him?’

‘The b—the man?’

‘Yes.’

Bai Yang shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know. There are so many like him in the city you would never know if you saw the same one.’

‘Is it so bad beyond the palace walls?’

He shrugged. ‘Not so bad. In other kingdoms it can be worse. In other empires it is undoubtedly worse. The Empress has systems of aid in place, and Prince Jian Yi has put in humanitarian laws in the city, but it is whether they choose it. Whether they can reach for it before they are snatched away by the gangs or the whorehouses or both.’ He glanced at He Tian. ‘Have you had him checked?’

‘Checked?’

‘For… You know. For diseases.’

‘He is not an animal with fleas.’

‘If you are fucking him you should take ca—’

He Tian stopped short, boots crunching into the gravel as he turned to face him. ‘I am not bedding him,’ he said, carefully. Bai Yang could only hold his gaze for so long before he was forced to look away. He Tian started walking again. ‘And he was not—he was not like that.’

‘You’re sure?’ Bai Yang said, more tentative. ‘Because for most of them it is inevitable. That red hair and pale skin would fetch a pretty penny or three.’

He Tian gritted his teeth. ‘I’m sure.’

 

* * *

 

When he returned to his rooms, the sky was dark, and a small oil lamp burned lowly in the kitchen. A pot of stew lay cooling over the stove.

He Tian stared at it as he unbuttoned his coat, and removed his scabbard, and peeled off his gloves.

 _Why are you doing this?_ he thought, loosening the collar around his throat, staring at it, not quite able to look away. Why would someone that he had forcibly brought into his home care to do anything—willingly—for him. He Tian slept prudently, waiting for the moment he would wake with a knife in his belly or cutting through his throat. He waited to find himself tied to his own bed while Guan Shan made his way stealthily through the grounds under the cover of night, and slipped into the city. He Tian knew that he would not look for him. He knew he would let him go.

Why, he wondered, as he made his way up the stairs, and pushed the door open with a gentle press of his fingertips, did he lay there sleeping when he could be running? What had he faced that he could find something like safety here?

He remembered the feel of him, the panicked flutter of his heartbeat, the quickened breath, the stink of fear that was rushing off him in waves. The way he had fallen against him at the sound of his voice. He remembered the way it had made him feel, to see him running, anger and irritation and some strange sense of disappointment, and then the feeling as he had heard his riddled words and as Guan Shan clutched to the open lapels of his coat, like he hadn’t thought of letting go.

He Tian moved silently into the bedroom. The light of the new moon crept through the window, and He Tian’s shadow slipped across the bed. He could see the slow rise and fall of Guan Shan’s chest, such minute movements, and the darting movement of his eyes beneath pale eyelids, caught in the throes of a dream. If He Tian lay the back of a hand on his neck, would he be warm?

He Tian felt his heart shift as Guan Shan turned in his sleep, curled on his side, the fingers of a hand curved lightly in. He made a quiet sound in his throat. He Tian watched him, and had the unbearable desire to reach out, and brush the loose strands of red hair away from his eyes. He imagined Guan Shan waking under his touch, sleep-warm and dazed, imagined him blinking as he took the sight of him in. Imagined his lips curving into a pleased smile.

He Tian frowned at himself. He knew, too well, what would happen: Guan Shan would flinch when his mind made up the pieces of what he was seeing. He would rear away from his touch, and He Tian wouldn’t know what to say. Guan Shan didn’t seem like someone who took silences and poor truths easily. What excuse would he even give him?

He could not give him one. He could, not really, give him anything.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, and felt the workings of his jaw, fingers squeezing into fists at his sides. He was suffering from exhaustion; he didn’t know what he was doing. He knew only that this would be a mistake.

He left the room as silently as he had come, and left the door slightly ajar as he made his way to his own room.

Now was not the time for this. Prince Jian Yi had been poisoned, and now a trespasser had entered the palace grounds, armed. He Tian imagined what it might have been like if he had not been there, if Guan Shan had run until he was worn and exhausted and a sword had been put through his flesh.

He gritted his teeth as he lit the small lamp on his bedside, and pulled up the chair at his desk. He was dizzy with tiredness, but the image flashed through his mind: the serving girl with her blue, swollen skin. Dead in her bed, in an unlocked room.

He had to find who it was, or, soon, someone else was going to be killed.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	9. The Princess of Noroi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Find me on Tumblr](http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/)

Zhengxi’s sister arrived with all the fanfare that she would have wanted. The streets were prepared for her coming, scattered with the blossom that had fallen around the city the week before, so they ran with a river of fading pink. The Kaians leaned from their windows and hung banners honouring the alliance between Noroi and Kaehai, bearing woven images of lilies against a backdrop of a glowing white moon.

The Empress stood with Jian Yi in the main courtyard in front of the main palace building, and Zhengxi wrapped her in a fierce hug once her slippered feet touched the smooth paving stones.

She was taller than he remembered; her face was losing the roundness of youth. Her smile was a bright, mischevous thing that reminded him of Jian Yi. She had spent most of her childhood in the north of Noroi, where his grandmother’s palace sat on the rocky cliffs of Noroi’s coastlines, gulls cawing, waves storm-grey. He remembered how she had cried—returned from the north, only for Zhengxi to take his leave and go south to Kaehai.

‘Duty,’ he had told her, and she had not understood.

The smile she offered Jian Yi as they crossed was tight and narrow, but it was enough that she should move herself low in obeisance before the Empress.

In the evening, they dined in the throne room, and her chattering voice echoed off the walls like the voice of a little bird.

‘Travelling food is horrid,’ she said, like she was divesting the nobles around her with some kind of secret. ‘Dried fish and cold rice. I’m so grateful that the Empress has provided a meal such as this evening’s.’

The Empress inclined her head, and Jian Yi raised an eyebrow, chin cupped in his palm. ‘The distance between Noroi and Kai is only a week, isn’t it? I’m sure you didn’t have to suffer long.’

Zhengxi’s sister tilted her chin. ‘Any travel is a toil,’ she said. Her eyes fell on He Tian, who stood immobile, a short distance behind the Empress’ chair. ‘I’m sure you must know what it’s like, Imperial Guard He Tian. Travelling to see your brother on the border.’

His gaze was a cool slide of dark eyes. ‘Yes, Princess.’  

‘Speaking of the border,’ said Jian Yi. ‘The Prince of She will be joining us in a week. He informed me that the two of you were well acquainted.’

Zhengxi watched his sister carefully. She was a creation of emotion and sentiment. Her time spent with their grandmother had made an unruly, wilful thing out of her, like the purpling storms and craggy rocks of the north had somehow settled in her too.

He saw the red stain that crept across her cheeks, and felt something sink in him.

‘I visited in the winter,’ she said. ‘Winters in She are much milder. Much more tolerable.’

‘So you spent some time with him?’

Her gaze sharpened. Zhengxi was aware of nobles’ conversations quieting to catch her words. They were not interested in a princess’ romantic affections. They were interested in where the political sentiment of a kingdom lay. Zhengxi did not know how to make it clear that his sister was entirely unqualified to represent Noroi.

‘Yes, I did,’ she said. ‘We went hunting. He was very gracious. Perhaps you will host a hunt, Prince Yi?’

Jian Yi leaned back in his seat. His smile was needle thin and just as sharp. ‘What an excellent idea,’ he said. He glanced at Zhengxi and his gaze settled for a moment too long. ‘A hunt.’

 _I will play your sister_ _’s game,_ that look said, _and I will win._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Zhengxi’s sister woke late, which meant that she was late to join him for tea.

The dinner the night before had lasted far longer than it should have. The Empress had excused herself early, followed soon after by most of the nobles, and then Zhengxi, his sister, and Jian Yi were the only ones left. He Tian said he had ‘matters’ to deal with. The conversation, for a while, had lingered on nostalgic, Zhengxi and his sister remembering the scant few memories they had shared together, and then swiftly Jian Yi had joined in. They had fifteen years’ worth of memories.

‘You shouldn’t irritate her,’ Zhengxi had said, walking with Jian Yi back to their apartments. ‘You know what she’s like.’

‘I do. But I think you know more what I’m like.’

‘Yes,’ Zhengxi had said. ‘You like to win.’

Jian Yi’s answering look had been pointed, and Zhengxi had felt something warm inside him for a moment, a bolted gate starting to slide itself open again. 

Still, he remembered the boys in Jian Yi’s room, the arched look of Jian Yi, loose in the chair. More, he remembered the hesitation in front of the door, ready to greet the grim sight of whatever lay behind it, and knowing that he could not. He wasn’t sure what sort of thing his mind would have shattered into if he’d seen the aftermath of an assassin’s intrusion. A copper fruit bowl upended, oranges rolling across the floorboards. An open window letting the stirrings of a dawn breeze shift the curtains. Blood, staining slowly into the mattress in warm wetness. A fine, pale hand, limp fingers curled inward in frozen memory.

Zhengxi shook his head. It wasn’t a possibility he wanted to sustain or indulge in; he couldn’t allow himself that kind of possibility. Thinking that the future heir of the Empire of Kaehai had almost died was not something he could do for long, because the heir was, inevitably, Jian Yi. Thinking that Jian Yi had almost died was not something he could ever do.

Zhengxi glanced up as he heard soft footfall on the the stepping stones towards the pavilion.

‘Finally,’ said Jian Yi, though his irritation was barely corporeal. Since the intrusion, Jian Yi had barely been able to move freely about the palace, let alone the city. Zhengxi imagined that a morning spent antagonising his sister was probably a welcome past time.

‘Forgive my lateness,’ Zhengxi’s sister said, as she approached the small steps of the pavilion. She wore a dress the colour of cherry blossom, and a cloak three shades darker. Zhengxi, wearing clothing that was typically muted, and more typically Kaehaian, frowned.

‘You should adapt to the culture you visit,’ Zhengxi told her, eying the fabric of the dress. It must have been made in Far.

‘Trousers are unflattering,’ came the response as she settled herself down across the table from them, cross-legged on the mats.

‘It doesn’t matter what your preferences are,’ said Zhengxi, thinking only that trousers had never been unflattering. Thinking how they looked, skin-snug against Jian Yi’s thighs.

She passed off his look as she poured herself a cup of tea, and Zhengxi realised only belatedly that Jian Yi was leaning across him and filling his own cup.

He blinked, mind halting on the image of Jian Yi’s fingers curled around the pewter handle, the press of Jian Yi’s arm against his chest as he leaned. The smell of him, clean and warm, the crown of his head close enough that Zhengxi could have kissed the silken strands of his hair. If he wished.

‘Thank you,’ he offered limply, instead, as Jian Yi drew away.

Jian Yi shrugged.

Zhengxi knew, really, what Jian Yi was doing. Whenever his sister visited, Zhengxi’s affections became prize-worthy. He didn’t know how to tell the both of them that they were not something that could be won. He did not tell them, either, that Jian Yi had them in a different way than his sister did. He did not tell him that it was also a better way.

They spent the first hour speaking of Noroi. Zhengxi’s sister answered questions about his mother and father, and about the recent flooding that had inflicted the forested valleys of the north-west. He asked about the affairs of the courts and of the taxation levies, and the populace contentment, and Noroi’s import and export climate. Some questions she could answer, but most she could not, and he did not miss the flash of irritation that passed her face. _Jian Yi would know_ , he had been thinking, and it would have shown.

He wasn’t being fair, he knew. Jian Yi was the heir. His sister was not going to see the throne, if the stars permitted it. It did not mean she should not have taken a more invested interest in Noroi’s political and social affairs, since the stars burned cruelly in their dark sky when they wished.

‘The people would like to see you more,’ she told him. ‘It’s not good that you are in Kaehai so much.’

‘I will live in Kaehai until I am twenty-five,’ Zhengxi said. ‘The people know that. And so do you.’

‘Twenty-five is the official end of companionship, but you’re not held to it. Mother was the Empress’ companion and yet she was granted leave to return to Noroi when she was sixteen.’

‘The Empress is not Jian Yi. And I am not our mother.’

The truth in that was a heavy thing. Zhengxi could not ever remember a time where the Empress had shown herself to have the same thing lit in her as her son. Jian Yi’s was a bright, sparking thing, willing to blind. The Empress’ would not stop at a man’s eyes.

‘It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t visit more often,’ his sister was saying. ‘You will be their king. Not the King of Kaehai.’

‘I think he might know that,’ said Jian Yi. ‘Oddly enough.’

Zhengxi ignored his comments. What he did say, however, was: ‘Be careful of saying that the people must want something only because you want something, sister.’

‘I wasn’t—’

‘The moment you start to use their voice as yours is the moment things get… complicated.’

His sister’s expression soured. Her visits tended inevitably to turn into moments like this, schooling and carefully academic. Zhengxi could never tell if she pretended not to understand most of the time, or if she simply chose not to. It was a blessing, for Zhengxi, that he didn’t tire of teaching her.

‘I still don’t understand,’ she said. ‘If you’ve spent your life here—with _him—_ how do you expect to be able to rule Noroi when you barely know it?’

‘Know it?’ Zhengxi said. ‘I don’t have to have lived there to understood how to _run_ it. Kaehai is… a conglomerate of individual kingdoms collected under one empire. It is an administrative hub.’

He was simplifying things, and somehow making the Empire seem less, but he had the patience to do so. He felt the pressing of Jian Yi’s gaze on him as he talked about Kaehai as if he knew it. As if he could ever understand the sprawling mass of it, seeping across a map like spilled tea staining paper, with all its conquered lands and different peoples.

‘Isn’t that arrogance?’ his sister said archly. ‘To assume that because you can rule an empire you can rule a kingdom?’

‘On the contrary. At least I’m not assuming that because I could rule a kingdom I could run an empire.’

Jian Yi laughed quietly, a breath of a sound. ‘The stars forbid you try to usurp me.’

‘I would fail too well, I know.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Jian Yi, and Zhengxi failed to part the slyness from a tone that might have been genuine. ‘I think I would hand it over to you quite willingly.’

‘What,’ said Zhengxi’s sister, oblivious to the weighted thing that had slotted neatly in between them. Oblivious to the look that Zhengxi gave him, startled, a small parting of his mouth in muted uncertainty. Oblivious to the way Jian Yi, pointedly, was not looking back. ‘And you would rule Noroi in Zhengxi’s place?’

She did not hide the disgust in her voice, or the pocket of fear that crept in too. The reality of it was absurd, and yet she said it like she knew it was still a possible reality.

‘Oh, no,’ said Jian Yi breezily. ‘Noroi is so well-allied with Kaehai that I expect bringing it under the Empire’s rule wouldn’t be entirely argued against. I’m sure Zhengxi wouldn’t mind adding another kingdom to his retinue.’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Zhengxi’s sister. She passed a heated look to her brother. ‘Tell him he’s being absurd.’

‘You’re being absurd,’ said Zhengxi, dumbly.

‘Two royals against one?’ said Jian Yi, raising his cup to his lips at the same time his pale eyebrows rose. ‘I hardly think that’s fair.’

Zhengxi had to pull his eyes away. The thing that lingered in Jian Yi’s voice made his stomach knot as he swallowed down ginger-flavoured tea. He recognised the feeling for what it was: fear. He recognised the sound in Jian Yi’s words for what it was too: truth. Given half the chance, Zhengxi had no doubt Jian Yi would do something as absurd—yes, absurd—as add Noroi to the Kaehai Empire and place Zhengxi at the head of it.

‘It’s not that I wouldn’t _want_ it,’ Jian Yi would say. Zhengxi could hear the words now; he could imagine how Jian Yi would catch the hem of his cloak before he slipped from a court meeting, his head ducked, smile tentative and young. ‘I just think you’re more capable of fulfilling all of… this.’

‘Don’t joke,’ Zhengxi muttered now. ‘You’re talking of conquering another nation.’ _Flippantly._

‘You’re right,’ said Jian Yi, with too sudden an agreement. His gaze swung to Zhengxi’s sister. ‘I shouldn’t tease when what we should be talking about is Prince She Li, no? All this talk of conquering nations.’

There was a short, brief silence, where Zhengxi’s sister did nothing but stare into her lap. She could have given nothing away, but her jaw flexed. _Like a storm,_ Zhengxi thought. _It can_ _’t help the boom of thunder before the lightning._

‘We don’t talk about politics,’ she said. ‘I’m useless to you.’

Jian Yi blinked. ‘You still speak with him?’

‘Of course I do, we’re—’ She broke off, and swallowed like Jian Yi had given her a blade to rest on her tongue, careful not to let it slide down her throat.

‘I see,’ said Jian Yi.

‘Forgive me,’ said Zhengxi. ‘I don’t follow.’

Normally, Jian Yi might have thrown him a glance of vague amusement, as if Noroi had rooted itself in him when he was a child and refused to leave him. As if he were unable to quite understand the machinations of Kaehai with all its convolutions that Jian Yi balanced like leaves bursting on new branches.

Jian Yi’s look was not like that. He had pulled his lower lip between his teeth, suddenly boyish and tentative. Suddenly not so willing to throw out barbed comments that that didn’t matter so long as they hit their mark—Zhengxi’s sister.

‘It seems,’ he said, careful, tongue navigating the words in his mouth like there were stormy seas to be avoided in the syllables, ‘that your sister is betrothed to the beloved Prince of She.’

‘I’m not—’

‘Don’t _lie_ , Princess Zhan,’ Jian Yi snapped. ‘Not to him. You owe him the truth.’

Zhengxi could only stare at her. He felt hollowed, whittled out like a tree ready to be made into something decorative and useless. He felt useless.

‘Tell me you said no,’ he said. ‘Tell me you—’

‘I accepted his hand.’

Zhengxi swore loudly in Noroian, harsh enough that his sister flinched, and Jian Yi, with a steady grip on the language, let his eyes widen. Zhengxi felt the cup shake in his grip, tea trembling over the sides, and he placed it on the table hard enough that more force might have broken it. Everything that was in his head felt lit up with a painful, startling clarity.

‘How could you be so—’ He pressed the heel of his palm into his right eye. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re an idiot but not as much as him. He didn’t even ask Mother and Father, did he?’

His sister’s lower lip was trembling, but he couldn’t care for that right now. She said, quietly, defensively, _plaintively,_ ‘He wanted it to be private.’

‘You don’t _get_ to have privacy when you are royalty, sister,’ Zhengxi ground out, fists clenched on his thighs. His memory caught on the fact that, sometimes, that was not true. But this was: ‘There are rules to follow. Out of sheer respect if nothing else. He should have gone to Mother and Father, and asked for their blessing. He should have gone to the Empress—’

‘The Empress of Kaehai has nothing to do with my marriage—’

‘Kaehai has _everything_ to do with it,’ Zhengxi cut in, the voice of a man who had been walked to the edge of a cliff and was now being asked to jump. ‘How do you think Noroi survives without the trade routes through Kaehai? How do you think Noroi funds itself without the merchants’ contracts with the Kaehai Guilds?’ He said what they all knew: ‘This country is as much indebted and a subject to Kaehai as the regions in the East Fields are. We are indebted to a country that brought us back from the brink of bankruptcy, after a war we fought against the man you say that you want to _marry._ _’_

‘Don’t talk about him like that,’ she protested. ‘Like he was the one to wage war. Like because he’s from there he’s somehow evil. He wasn’t even born when the war happened.’

 _‘From_ there?’ Zhengxi said, blinking back the disbelief that already coloured his tone. ‘He is the _heir_ , sister. He’s been trying to void the terms of the treaty between Kaehai and She for years now. You’re not so naive as to believe he is somehow apart from all of this.’

‘Stop calling me _stupid_ and _naive_. I’m not.’

‘You’re right,’ said Jian Yi. His voice was calm and steady, and it had a grounding effect on Zhengxi. He felt himself slowly start to fill out his skin again, for the blood to rush through his limbs and not sit burning hot at the back of his head and in his throat. ‘So show us that and turn down his hand.’

‘I’m not—Just because _you_ —’

‘Actually,’ said Jian Yi, cutting off her sputtering with an arrogant flick of his fingers, ‘it doesn’t matter whether you turn it down or not. You cannot get married without your parents’ blessing. And, forgive me, but I can’t understand what would prompt them to do such a thing. The wedding simply won’t happen. It’s sweet that you indulged in such a momentary fancy, I must admit.’

Her eyes, helplessly, fell on Zhengxi at the words. ‘Brother?’ she said, close to simpering. Her voice had a breathless quality to it. ‘Is he right?’

‘You are royalty, sister,’ said Zhengxi. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. ‘No one would sanction your wedding. Even if it were conducted privately, it would be immediately denounced by any authority. There would be… ceremony involved in a wedding between two royal families.’

‘Which seems odd,’ said Jian Yi. ‘You’d think She Li would want that.’

‘He did,’ said Zhengxi’s sister. ‘I was the one who—wanted it hidden.’

‘Because of your parents?’

‘I knew no one would condone of it.’

‘Well,’ said Jian Yi, heavy and pointed.

‘Sister,’ said Zhengxi, leaning forward. ‘You barely know him. You hardly spent a winter with him.’ He didn’t want to think about how that time was spent, She Li’s eyes on his sister, wolf-like and steady. The curl of that awful grin. How charmed she must have been by it, with his amber eyes and silver locks. And a prince, too.

‘We have written since,’ she said, demure, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. There was a narrow set to her shoulders, and Zhengxi felt himself looking for the storm in her. Where had it gone? Where was the crackle of charged air in her breath, the sea-dark stain of her eyes? It was like it had been dampened, a haphazard bucket of water left to slosh over it in some pathetic suppression—and like it had worked.

‘Letters,’ said Jian Yi, looking at his fingernails. ‘How romantic.’

‘You don’t know him like I do.’

Jian Yi’s hand fell sharply at his side, and suddenly he was leaning over the table, fingers biting into the surface of the wood as his face loomed over hers. _‘Yes_ ,’ he hissed. ‘But that means that _you don_ _’t know him like we do, you stupid little girl_.’

She shrank back, away from the wound of his words. Zhengxi felt the unbearable desire to go to her; to cater to her vulnerability; to shield her from this thing that Jian Yi was throwing at her, sharper and darker than she would have known. Except that she needed to know it. Jian Yi, offering this, was nothing like She Li would be, dressed up in false promises and handwritten words hiding devastation.

‘If you were king,’ Zhengxi’s sister said, eyes darting to his, ‘would you have given me your blessing?’

Zhengxi felt his mouth fall open, and his eyes met Jian Yi’s, helpless. Had she known they would discuss this when she came? Had she known, coming here, what she would ask him? What it would mean if he gave her an answer?

He said, looking at Jian Yi, ‘I can’t…’

‘Yes,’ said Jian Yi. ‘Let’s not deal with hypotheses and _ifs_. Zhengxi is not a king. Yet. If you want to play out this fantasy of yours, then you know, I think, where you need to go.’

‘My parents will never condone it.’

‘Don’t you think that’s telling?’ says Jian Yi. ‘There is a reason a child asks for their parents blessing, Princess.’ He said _Princess_ like it was some small, private joke. But then it was the same voice that he used when he called Zhengxi a prince, and when he talked about himself as the heir to Kaehai. It was as if their positions had been created as some sort of grand farce of which only Jian Yi was aware. Like he had been given a front-row seat at its construction.

He continued: ‘There is a reason the royal family should have to condone a marriage between people of the noble and royal classes. These decisions carry weight and _implications_. You should heed them.’

Zhengxi, at the look on her face, sighed. It held the red flush of a scolded child, beaten down by a parent who had proven them wrong and not been gentle about it. Gentle did not work with his sister; she took it too easily for an exploitative weakness, and an opportunity to make loopholes. It would be his own fault if he were anything but stern now.

‘I can’t imagine what you—feel for him,’ he said, manouvering awkwardly around the words. ‘You will have nothing if you go to Mother and Father. You might have something if you do. I can’t predict what they might say.’

‘Li will be here in a weeks’ time,’ his sister said. The bareness of the name settled strangely in him, the dull echo of a struck anvil. ‘Am I supposed to pretend we’re nothing to one another?’

‘Yes,’ said Zhengxi, simply.

‘But—’

‘Please,’ said Jian Yi. ‘If that’s the least you have to do, your royal duties are remarkably easy.’

‘You say that because you have no heart,’ she spat out.

The words slipped around them, and Zhengxi saw the moment when Jian Yi stilled, when his expression shuttered off, a smooth sheet of marble without grooves or footholds. He was looking at Zhengxi’s sister in an way that seemed too quiet. The poise of cat before it makes the leap.

But there was no leap. His gaze slid instead to Zhengxi, and Zhengxi realised that it wasn’t shuttered at all. No one could look at him and not see the burning thing inside of him.

‘No heart,’ said Jian Yi. ‘Really.’

 

* * *

 

‘My mother used to say that if you stared at one thing too long your eyes would change shape.’

‘My mother used to say that if you have nothing useful to say, then you should probably not use your tongue.’

‘I think they were both wrong then.’

He Tian sighed. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ he said, throwing the papers he had been holding onto his desk with a loose flick of his wrist. He brought his hands to his eyes, trying to press away the stinging tiredness from them.

‘I could help,’ said Guan Shan, leaning in the doorway, a pile of folded clothing in his arms. It was the fifth time he had asked that week, and each time He Tian felt the breathless uncertainty of having a favour, a gesture like that, waved temptingly in front of his face.

‘I know you could,’ said He Tian. ‘But this is… not something you should be looking at.’

‘You took me with you when you questioned people in the Bazaar.’

‘That was different,’ said He Tian. He let his hands fall, loose across his stomach, and leaned back in his chair. He was slouching slightly, he knew, and his mother probably would have scolded him for that too.

‘Not really,’ said Guan Shan. He Tian could only stare as he crossed the threshold of his bedroom doorway, and came to stand at his side. He lay the clothing down on the only empty part of the desk, and then picked up the recently thrown stack of papers with quick fingers, flicking through with deft movements and sharper eyes.

He Tian closed his eyes for a moment. It was a terrible decision. Closing oneself off from one sense meant that, suddenly, one became aware of every other. This close, He Tian could feel that strange warmth that seemed to come from Guan Shan, that seemed to beckon He Tian to him, that made him want to press closer and see if every part of him was warm. It was like Guan Shan had lit a small beacon inside of himself, one that could only possibly be enjoyed when someone was close enough to feel it. He Tian knew that, any closer, and he would gladly stretch himself like a cat around it.

He listened to the quiet scrape of the papers as Guan Shan flicked through, and He Tian didn’t need to open them to see what he would look like,  eyes burningly intense in concentration, body still like he had frozen, and been taken away somewhere by the words on the page. He smelled of cleanness and the faint scent of lilies; it must have come from the washing oils.

He Tian forced his eyes open. Guan Shan was glancing at him, papers limp in his hands.

‘What?’ He Tian said. The word came out dry and cracked as day-old bread, and swallowing only made his tongue stick to the roof his mouth.

‘Nothing,’ said Guan Shan, and then: ‘These are only interviews from the workers and the guests of the palace.’

He Tian looked at him, and swept away the feeling that had lodged itself, momentarily, in his stomach, with the breathlessness of what he might have said instead. Of what that quiet glance might have meant when He Tian wasn’t looking.

‘Who else is there?’ he said, quietly thankful that his voice came out clearer—more sure, even if he hadn’t felt it.

‘You haven’t asked the prisoners,’ said Guan Shan, with a slight shrug. He set the papers down again, neater than He Tian had, and then propped himself against the front of He Tian’s desk, arms folded.

He Tian leaned back and looked at him. ‘And why,’ he said steadily, ‘would I ask them anything.’

‘Because you’re forgetting that Grey got into the palace.’

He Tian blinked. Grey. A named boy without a name. He had forgotten. How had he forgotten the veiled shock he had felt, seeing Guan Shan in his cell, metal bars burnt away behind him, the smell of acid acrid in the damp air. How much Guan Shan must have hated him in that moment. Freedom had been so close.

‘You never asked,’ said Guan Shan. ‘Why didn’t you ask?’

‘Ask what?’

‘Ask how he got in.’

‘I know how he got in.’

Guan Shan stared at He Tian, and then his eyes went shrewd. ‘How?’

He Tian’s laugh was dry and mirthless, and he settled a look on Guan Shan that he could probably feel on his skin.

‘Do you honestly think,’ said He Tian, ‘that as the head of the Empress’ guard I wouldn’t know every way in and and out of this palace?’

Guan Shan’s look said that, no, he hadn’t. And it had been a grand oversight. ‘Then why—why haven’t you asked the prisoners?’

‘That’s sweet,’ said He Tian. ‘You think they’d tell me something.’

Guan Shan shifted against the desk. ‘Don’t tell me your methods of extracting information don’t go past a please and thank you.’

‘They’re murderers and rapists, Guan Shan.’

‘That doesn’t make them incapable of feeling pain. They’re usually the ones who give in first.’

 _Usually?_ He Tian thought. _And how would you know that?_

‘We don’t keep prisoners in those cells in the long-term,’ He Tian told him. ‘They stay until we have information from them and can charge them. The longer they’ve been there, the more… difficult they tend to be.’

‘Difficult,’ said Guan Shan, with an arched look.

‘If they won’t admit to a crime, they’re unlikely to submit to my own less invasive questions.’

‘Have you even given them incentive? A reduced sentence? Monetary compensation?’

‘Is that what you would do?’ said He Tian. ‘Hand yourself over to the enemy for a few coins?’

‘You’re not—the enemy,’ said Guan Shan, after a silence. ‘And you’re forgetting that a lot of people have families. Families they would be willing to do things for—kill for.’

He Tian shook his head. ‘So eager to humanise the vagrants?’ he said, but the question came out false. _Vagrants._ It was the word Bai Yang had used, and it fell raw between them, opening them both up to some truth that was staring them both in the face: Guan Shan had been in one of those cells not so long ago. He looked acutely, distinctly aware of it, reliving it in a few snatched moments that passed like shadows across his face.

‘Put me back in there,’ said Guan Shan. ‘Let me ask them.’

He Tian let his gaze travel up and down the length of him, stretched out as he stood propped against the edge of He Tian’s desk, dressed as he was in fitted trousers and a shirt he unbuttoned too far down at the throat. He didn’t understand the propriety of the court, where keeping the fabric of a shirt tucked high around the throat was like hiding a part yourself.

He Tian couldn’t tell if Guan Shan had nothing to hide, but he thought more that Guan Shan didn’t care if anyone saw him bare a part of himself, the pale line of flesh at his throat, the hinting swell of his collarbones.

He Tian indulged briefly in the thought of Guan Shan sitting on the edge of the desk, legs swinging, light catching on his hair and making him into something live. And then, unbidden: skin flushed, a choke stifled in his throat, back arching off the wood.

‘Or not,’ said Guan Shan, shifting under the weight of whatever look He Tian had pinned him with.

He Tian blinked, slow and lazy, divesting of the image as one would the hazy swirl of incense. The smell of it still lingered, cloying. ‘They’ll take one look at you and spit in your face.’

‘Not if I go in as a prisoner again.’

‘Absolutely not. They’ll recognise you.’

‘Most of them hardly caught a glimpse of me. And I’ll say I tried to escape. That you put me back in as—punishment. They can’t honestly expect me to harbour any good sentiment towards you.’

‘Do you?’ said He Tian, regretting it instantly, willing his expression into one of still blankness like a newly frozen lake. _Don_ _’t answer that,_ he wanted to say, except the desire for an answer clung too sharply to his edges for him to say it.

‘Harbour… good sentiment?’ said Guan Shan, working awkwardly around the phrase. He had unfolded his arms, and he was picking blithely at his nails. ‘I’m still a prisoner,’ he said, telling He Tian that this was the direction he was going to answer that particular question, which was probably for the best. The best for the both of them. ‘Only I don’t wear the chains.’

‘You’re hardly a prisoner.’

‘So I can leave if I want to? Right now. Just get up and walk from the grounds and not turn back?’

Outside, the light was growing dim, and shadows were fracturing themselves across Guan Shan’s skin like small blocks of dark paint, angles precise, sliding across him, neatly uniform, as he shifted.

He Tian said, ‘Yes. If you want to.’

‘You—’ Guan Shan sucked in a breath, and turned his face away. ‘Don’t.’

‘I’m serious.’ _Don_ _’t go._ ‘You have earned your freedom—your _pardon_ well enough by now. We both know this is not the way a usual sentence is carried out.’

‘You said you wanted me here to help you with the assassin. With the poison.’

‘I did.’ But that wasn’t why He Tian had brought him into his home. Not really. And they both knew it. It was simply easier to think otherwise. ‘But I’m no closer to finding a culprit with you or without you.’

‘I just offered you my services. You should accept them. It makes sense.’

 _Services,_ He Tian thought, mind rearranging itself around the word. Did he know what he was saying?

He caught Guan Shan’s look, sharply intelligent in a way he had missed the first time he had seen him. But then, the first time He Tian had seen Guan Shan he was a shaking frame of fear and uncertainty, and He Tian had not held his punches. The message was clear: he knew what he was saying. He knew too, perhaps, what its implications might be.

Guan Shan seemed to be aware of the world, sometimes, in a way that He Tian did not seem to think he was. He remembered asking Bai Yang: _Is it so bad beyond the palace walls?_

Asking it as if he did not know. As if he did not know how Kai worked—how the creatures in it thrived. Of course he knew, but Guan Shan seemed to be the sort of person who had never needed to ask the question in the first place. His good-breeding was an enigma to He Tian; he acted like a noble sometimes, and yet when he spoke, he placed himself among them. As if the dark-robed thing with knives in the folds was all Guan Shan had ever been, and all he had ever known how to be.

And it was this, perhaps, that allowed He Tian to nod. He had to remember that Guan Shan was not some lord’s son, green as new shoots in spring. He was the jagged rocks at the bottom of the river beds, grinning when you cut open your feet.

‘One night,’ said He Tian. ‘I will inform the guards that you will be… asking questions.’

Guan Shan nodded. His eyes had gone bright as stars. This was what he was used to: furtive machinations, tests of stealth and balance and easy flirtings with danger. He ran the roofs, and it was a silent challenge for the city. _Go ahead,_ it said. _Let me fall and break my neck. I_ _’ll bleed on you._

‘And after?’ said Guan Shan. ‘If one of the prisoners saw him? If you catch him.’

‘Nothing is that easy.’

‘Indulge me.’

He Tian breathed lowly. ‘You may see it through to its end, if you wish. Or you may leave. Go back to your streets.’

‘Aren’t they your streets?’

He Tian looked at him. They were the Empress’ streets before they were anyone else’s, except He Tian’s mind was burnished with the image of Guan Shan perched on a roof during the sky-burn of a sunset. He would look, for a moment, like he was lit up by it. Like he sat with it in quiet acquiescence, agreeing to be a part of it; agreeing to burn with it.

‘Or you can stay,’ He Tian said, like the question hadn’t been asked. ‘Your skills would be welcome in the palace.’

Guan Shan was giving He Tian a look the he couldn’t understand, made of fractured light and shadows that couldn’t settle, like Guan Shan’s struggle was to find which he belonged with more.

‘Welcome,’ Guan Shan said flatly. ‘You overestimate me.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said He Tian, gazing at him.

‘Street urchin to—what? Court herbalist? Physician?’

‘We already have one of those. You could be an apprentice. Paid and clothed, of course.’

Guan Shan was shaking his head. He pushed himself away from the desk, and in the space he left, He Tian felt like had been given a moment to breathe, pull something into his lungs that wasn't lilies and too much bare skin.

He Tian turned slightly in his seat, watching as Guan Shan went to the window, all shadows now. He Tian could hear sounds of evening movement outside in the barracks, men moving about as their shifts changed, servants making their way to the kitchens for the serving of dinner. The Princess of Noroi’s visit had brought with it a flare of flurried activity. He Tian could only imagine what it would be like when the Prince of She arrived. Ripe pickings for someone who wished to wipe out a generation of rulers.

The thought should have sat heavily in his throat, a burst of something sharp behind his eyes. Instead, he was filled with the image of Guan Shan, palm tenderly pressed against the pane of the window, and he chose only to see this.

‘One night,’ Guan Shan muttered, warm breath causing a glow of white to unfurl across the glass. ‘I suppose we’d better make our way. What was it you said? _The prison cells will be getting cold_?’

‘Guan Shan—’

‘He Tian. Do you want to find out who’s trying to kill your beloved Prince of Kaehai or not?’

He Tian rubbed a hand across his eyes and pulled himself to his feet. His smile was grim, but entirely helpless. ‘Lead the way,’ he said, and followed him from the door, and towards the palace prisons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Find me on Tumblr](http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/)


	10. Captivity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on my [Tumblr](http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/)

Guan Shan remembered the coldness of it, and the hardness of the ground. He remembered the smell of it, like rot creeping in at the edges, dampness clinging to stone, and knew that it wasn’t there so much as he imagined it to be. It was easier to despise something when there was nothing to like.

He had a blanket and no pallet, and his back ached when he tried to lie down, so instead he sat in the corner of his cell, shadowed, as he had done before. It hit him how easy it had been—to grow accustomed to comfort, and a warm bed, and food that he did not have to spend money on, or steal. A guard slid a bowl of cold congee through his cell bars, and a colder cup of tea that sloshed mostly onto the floor with the motion.

He stared at it, and did not eat it. He would be out by tomorrow.

The cold night air pulled at the scars on his back, and his eye was starting starting to swell.

‘Hit me,’ said Guan Shan, when they had paused outside the main entrance to the prison. A guard stood a little way inside the first gate that led onto the huge oak doors, back turned.

‘Pardon me?’

‘ _Hit me_ ,’ Guan Shan said again, to He Tian. ‘Don’t be soft about it.’

He Tian had looked at his face, and then to the prison. His fingers, in his gloves, had clenched into fists. ‘Why would I do that?’ he said, carefully.

Guan Shan tapped the side of his eye. ‘Verisimilitude.’

He Tian stared at him.

‘Don’t deny that you haven’t wanted to hit me the second you saw me.’

‘I did,’ said He Tian. ‘Hit you. Want to. But not—’ He broke off. Guan Shan realised that his hands were not fisted in an attempt to ready themselves for the opportunity of bunched knuckles meeting flesh. This was something else. ‘You’re defenceless.’

‘I was the first time.’

‘You were a thief then.’

‘Am I not still a thief?’

The look He Tian gave him was long, and entirely unreadable.

After a moment, Guan Shan felt him reach out, and grab the collar of his shirt between two hands. With a slight pull, the fabric tore, and a button skittered to the smooth cobbles of the courtyard beneath their feet. Perhaps it was for this reason, the rush of air across his collarbones, the glint of the ivory button rolling between the grooves of the stones, that he did not notice He Tian stepping back. That he did not notice when he drew his fist backwards, and saw only the dark blur of it before he hit Guan Shan squarely across the face.

The pain, immediately, was blinding, a burst of something aching and burning like hot iron pressed to his skin. For a moment he could see a swimming darkness that filled his ears with a faint, static ringing. Only vaguely could he feel the hand steadying him at the elbow as he blinked, as the air came from him in a choked rush. Heat was a prickly coating over him as the pain subsided, until eventually there was only the hot throbbing of skin and bone around his right eye and the arch of his cheekbone.

‘You _said_ —’ He Tian gritted his teeth.

‘No, no,’ said Guan Shan, when he thought he could talk again. The words came out tight. ‘It was—You were—fine.’ He had felt the pull of his flesh drawing itself closed. ‘Does it look convincing?’

‘Would you like me to hit you again if I said no?’

He felt like he had been trampled beneath a horse, but he said, chin jerking, ‘Yes.’

He Tian’s stare was indecipherable, but there was something different about it—a reworking. ‘Come on,’ He Tian said after a while, gripping Guan Shan by the arm, the hold tight and firm, and drawing him closer to the prison. ‘Let’s get this finished.’

Guan Shan was silent when He Tian threw him in a cell, metal door slamming shut with an echo that stretched the length of the tunnel. He listened as He Tian exchanged quiet words with the guards.

He Tian came back, for a moment, and held up a finger.

Guan Shan nodded. One night.

He had watched as, when silence had passed, He Tian’s finger moved to the buttons of his coat, and let it shrug off his shoulders. He threw it at Guan Shan, and when Guan Shan drew it from the floor of the cell with uncertain eyes and a trembling hand, He Tian nodded, and left.

Guan Shan had to bite down the sound in his throat that made him want to say stop. It was the same feeling when He Tian had walked into the gardens. When he had left his room that night. _Come back. Don_ _’t leave me, please._

 

* * *

 

‘If your sister talks about She Li’s eyes one more time—’

‘The feeling is mutual,’ Zhengxi muttered, falling down next to Jian Yi on the sofa in Jian Yi’s rooms. He rubbed his hands across his face. ‘Who knew there were so many ways to describe the snake.’

‘Oh no,’ said Jian Yi. ‘Not a snake. A wolf. Those beautiful, fluid creatures in North Noroi. Why, surely those eyes are more beautiful than all of Kaehai’s amber reserves put together.’

Zhengxi groaned. ‘I can’t believe she said that.’

Jian Yi waved a hand dismissively. ‘She’s a child,’ he said, in the tone of voice of someone who was saying, _She_ _’s an idiot._

Zhengxi watched as Jian Yi pulled off his long boots, letting them fall to the floor. He tucked his legs beneath him, an elbow resting loosely on the armrest of the sofa. The fire was spitting quietly in front of them, shadow and light glancing across Jian Yi’s face. His eyes, light as they were, seemed to swallow the flames whole.

The rooms were quiet. The two Princes had dined with the Princess of Noroi that evening and no one else. The days, despite her presence, had been quiet. It seemed to settle around them now, and Zhengxi could feel the sure, steady beating of his heart beneath his shirt.

‘You’re staring at me.’

Zhengxi looked away. ‘Forgive me,’ he said.

‘I didn’t say I minded.’

Zhengxi breathed low and quiet, and shook his head. He wanted to brush his knuckles accross the underside of Jian Yi’s jaw, a soft cuff, but he did nothing.

‘You’re so…’

Jian Yi glanced at him. He looked youthful, like this, loose and boneless. Zhengxi was so aware of the way Jian Yi became like this—this languid, poseless thing—when it was just them. Like Zhengxi was the only one allowed to see the underneath; the one that was given a glimpse of everything. The playful, mindless Prince, and the one who stared into the fire like he would let the flames burn him whole.

‘So?’

‘Difficult,’ said Zhengxi. There were more things he could have said—better things. But this was neater.

‘I think you like difficult,’ said Jian Yi. ‘If you didn’t, you’d go back to Noroi.’

‘I’m not twenty-five,’ said Zhengxi. ‘I can’t go back.’

Jian Yi said, not changing his position, ‘I release you from the service of companionship.’

The silence that followed was an immediate thing. It felt, suddenly, louder than it had before. Zhengxi felt the desperate urge to fill it, to erase those binding words.

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘I think I do.’

‘You don’t want me to leave you.’

‘I think I—’ He stopped. ‘It would be easier if I did.’

‘You have no witnesses,’ Zhengxi said. ‘Your declaration of emancipation means nothing. I reject it. I don’t want it.’

‘You should.’

‘Why?’ Zhengxi said sharply. ‘Because our relationship has become inappropriate?’

Zhengxi watched the slight flush that washed over Jian Yi’s face with some interest. ‘No,’ he said. His voice sounded tight. ‘Because someone is trying to kill me and I don’t want you getting in the way.’

‘You _want_ them to kill you?’

‘I don’t want them to kill _you,_ _’_ Jian Yi said, irritable. ‘Honestly, why must you— _Inappropriate_?’ he said, changing the conversation like the sudden crack of a horse whip. Zhengxi could see how the word had taken hold of itself inside of him, refusing to let go.

‘You know what I meant.’

‘Our relationship is as it has always been. I don’t know what you mean at all.’

‘Always been?’ said Zhengxi, turning to him. ‘Jian Yi, you—You kissed me. Always been?’ he said again.

‘I thought we were going to pretend that didn’t happen. That’s—it’s easier like that. That’s what you want.’

‘Did I say that? Did we agree to that?’ He didn’t say that it probably was easier. He didn’t say that neither of them had been pretending it hadn’t happened at all. _No heart. Really._ They had been staring in the face of it, unblinking, and waiting for it to bite back.

Jian Yi stood and moved to the fireplace. He rested his hands on the wooden mantle above the fire, body curved away from the flames. His face became a mosaic of orange light and dark smudges of shadow, like bronze brought hot and glowing from a blacksmith’s fire.

‘She Li will be arriving in a few days,’ Jian Yi said. ‘I can’t do this right now. I can’t be thinking about this. I need to consider the treaty.’

‘I haven’t stopped thinking about it.’

Jian Yi made a torn sound. ‘Zhengxi—’

‘ _You_ kissed _me_ , Jian Yi. I cannot just forget it. Perhaps it’s better that I did, and I know that’s what you would want, for things to go back to normal, but you have made that impossible.’

He knew that wasn’t right as soon as the words left him: Jian Yi would only want things to go back to normal so long as Zhengxi didn’t want him. If Zhengxi did, and he did, Zhengxi couldn’t imagine someone so readily willing to receive his love.

Jian Yi’s eyes were shut tight. His fingers were digging into the mantle. ‘Please, Zhengxi. I can’t—’

‘If you thought I was the sort of friend that could pretend nothing happened, that I could simply be drawn in to believe your easy smiles, then you have misunderstood me. You’ve misunderstood—how we are.’

‘No,’ said Jian Yi. ‘You’ve misunderstood. You think that we can have something like that. Zhengxi, we can’t. And I knew it. That’s why I wanted it.’

‘That’s a lie. You wanted it because you love me. Me. Not because it is an unattainable thing. Not because it’s doomed to fail when I return to Noroi.’

‘Is it?’

‘What?’

‘Doomed to fail.’

Zhengxi looked at him, and Jian Yi was looking back, chin tucked over his shoulder. His eyes were low, brows drawn together. Standing there, he looked alone.

‘No,’ Zhengxi whispered. ‘No, Jian Yi. We can—it could work.’

 _How?_ he asked himself. Two men of two kingdoms. Jian Yi had no siblings; he would need a child. They would be free to love, but not free to marry. The responsibility was too great. Zhengxi’s mind stumbled over itself, first, that he was imagining marriage with Jian Yi. Second, that he was imagining someone else marrying Jian Yi. It twisted painfully inside him, a pressure in his chest.

Zhengxi walked over to him, and felt the way Jian Yi tensed, tightening up like a pulled rope. If Zhengxi was pulling on one end, who was at the other?

‘I _can_ _’t_ , Zhengxi,’ Jian Yi said, as he came closer. ‘Not until the treaty is resolved.’

‘I can wait.’

‘Good,’ said Jian Yi. And then, almost wry, ‘I have waited fifteen years. I’m glad a few weeks won’t bother you too greatly.’

Perhaps this was the tension, Zhengxi thought. This was why he was holding himself so still, trembling with such care. This was wanting—needing something so much, and not being able to have it. Zhengxi was so close to him. Another step and Jian Yi’s back would be pressed against his front. Zhengxi could put his lips on the flash of pale skin above his collar, brush aside the white strands of hair. He could leave a mark, soft and purpling, and no one would know.

He could do all of it, and it was thrilling, but Zhengxi had to stand back, and let Jian Yi breathe in the hot air of burning embers.

He stepped away, and made himself sit back on the sofa, where there was distance between them, where Jian Yi could think and not only feel. Zhengxi let him, wondering what thoughts were swirling behind those grey eyes, the colour of clouded skies, and a storm beginning to curl into existence.

Jian Yi used to smile more, and Zhengxi hoped that the lessening was the fault of the treaty, and the poisoning—not him. One thing would fade, and might bring that smile back. If it was him, Zhengxi was not sure he could bring it back at all.

After a while, Jian Yi loosened, and his shoulders rolled back. His hands fell from the mantle, and he moved back to the sofa. The breath he let in shook slightly, but eyes were present; he was with Zhengxi, here, now. It was grounding.

On the table lay a bundle of papers, and Jian Yi nodded at them. They were copies of the treaty between She and Kaehai, and administrative notes from meetings between the two nations. They were starting to curl at the edges from Jian Yi’s persistent rifling.

‘Tell me,’ said Jian Yi, voice as steady as it could be. ‘If your sister married She Li, who would Noroi fight for?’

 

* * *

 

Guan Shan had been in the cell for hours. Moonlight seeped through the barred, glassless windows, and the silence of the prison was chilling. The cold food sat uneaten in its bowl, and Guan Shan wanted to go to bed.

He was struck with the desire of it: he did not imagine his small bedroom on the West Side, nestled in the attic of the tavern, never silent, drunken laughter and music snaking its way up. He imagined something else, instead.

He stared at the coat, lying in his lap, the rich fabric under fingers, the galloon braiding around the buttons, the soutache on the shoulders. It was a more complex garment than he had thought. He thought the lining still felt warm.

‘He grow tired of fucking you?’

The voice came from somewhere to Guan Shan’s right, muffled by the stone walls that separated the prison cells.

A minute passed, and Guan Shan sat up a little straighter. ‘Are you talking to me?’

‘Naw, I’m talking to the piss pot in my cell— _yes_ , I’m talking to you, you git.’

Guan Shan paused. He thought he’d be the one to have to spark a conversation with someone down here, waiting for when the silence became heavy and willing for spilled secrets. Maybe it would be easier than he thought. Of course, he considered wryly, they’d all love to hear about how the Imperial Guard was getting a leg over someone like Guan Shan. He’d forgotten those sharp edges of Kai—ribald and jagged with crudeness. Sex was easy to understand when death was a closer possibility.

‘We weren’t fucking,’ said Guan Shan.

‘You mean he wasn’t fucking _you_. Ain’t nothing you’d be doing with one like that. Saw that shiner on your face clear as day when you went past.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘Yeah, and I’m the Empress.’

Guan Shan felt his lips quirk. ‘What are you in for?’ he asked. He needed to keep this level. If this man was willing to contribute, to say anything about the intruder, he’d have to feel like they had shared something—something that was true, and tangible.

He heard a quiet huff of air—maybe a laugh, maybe something else. ‘Didn’t realise we were exchanging stories, kid.’

‘You wanted something from me. It’s only fair.’

‘Fair,’ said the man, voice gruff. ‘Now there’s somethin’. Not sure you really gave me anything though, did you?’

‘What is that you want?’

He heard him scoff. ‘I remember when you left. A month or so and already you talk like one of them.’

‘I’m not.’

‘All right then. Give me something for the imagination.’

‘I’m not sure I—’

‘Think you do.’

Guan Shan swallowed. He said, quietly, ‘You can’t see me from here.’

‘Naw, don’t need that,’ came the easy reply. ‘Just tell me how it was between you and the Panther.’

‘I told you we—’ He broke off. _Something that was tangible._ Maybe it didn’t have to be true. Guan Shan felt his jaw shift. He felt the dull pain of his eye, closed shut. Maybe in the morning He Tian would give him a salve for it. No. He’d give Guan Shan the ingredients to make it himself. He would never make it so easy.

‘Waiting, boy.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Spare me the virgin excuses. Does he fuck you like you’re a doll? Does he let you come? Does he choke the air out of you? Bet he doesn’t let you use a bed, does he. A wall’ll do.’

Guan Shan could feel his breath in his throat, caught there like hand was holding it tight and not letting it go. He wasn’t a virgin. The words weren’t shocking to him. But every one flashed an image in his mind that he wanted to shake. He was imagining, suddenly, a dark head craning over, and breath hot on his neck. Gloved hands on his waist.

‘It’s exactly how you think it is,’ said Guan Shan, stopping himself from biting the words out. He couldn’t close his eyes for this; he had to star at the metal bars, at the empty wall across from the cell, a brazier flickering silently. His words felt so loud.

‘How’s that then?’

Guan Shan said, ‘Rough.’

‘Yeah?’ A body shifting. ‘How’s he give it to you?’

A bed, clothing, food. ‘He just takes what he wants.’ _Stay inside._ _‘_ He doesn’t give anything.’ A coat, in his lap.

‘Ruined, after?’

Guan Shan said, ‘Broken.’

‘Bet he likes you quiet. Just a thing there for him. Won’t let you say if it hurts.’

 _Let me. You_ _’ll cut yourself._ ‘Yeah. It’s like I’m not there.’

‘Just a hole for him to stick his cock into. Tight as fuck, aren’t you?’

Guan Shan could feel himself shaking. ‘That’s why he took me the last time. So I was just—there for him.’ A door that didn’t open. Except when it did. Except when He Tian thought he was asleep, and he’d just stood there. And Guan Shan didn’t know what to do—what he would do—if He Tian reached for him. And he’d left, and Guan Shan had felt empty. And he’d hated it.

‘And the eye?’ the man said. ‘Fight back, did you?’

‘It hurt too much. I wanted him to stop.’

‘Look where it got you. Stupid bitch. Should’ve taken it.’

‘Yes. I should have let him.’

 _‘Yeah_ , you should.’ There was a quiet groan, a drawn-in breath, and then silence. ‘Fuck.’

Guan Shan had closed his eyes, but he only realised now that everything was darkness, now that the image of it had stopped tearing through his mind. He had thought the same, then. He had thought, more than a month ago, what it was going to be like. And now he couldn’t bear it. More, he couldn’t bear the slow revelation that He Tian had been almost everything he hadn’t thought. It would have been easier if he had. Understanding it would have been easier.

How was a person supposed to deal with someone who wouldn’t be the person you wanted them to be?

 _Do you want him to be like that?_ a quiet voice asked. Did he want He Tian to like him when he was silent, when he let him take? He didn’t—want it to hurt again. He saw, in He Tian, the opportunity for something different, and new, and he knew that it was a misplaced hope.

He shouldn’t have wanted anything like that from someone like him. Not when Guan Shan was who he was.

‘All right, then,’ came the man’s voice. It sounded darker than it had a moment ago, and Guan Shan could hear the words under his skull. He wanted to tear them out. ‘What are you really in here for?’

 

* * *

 

‘This is all hypothetical.’

‘If all I have is hypothetical to prevent a war, then I’ll accept it.’

Zhengxi looked at him. ‘You don’t really think there’ll be a war.’

‘I don’t know, Zhengxi. I don’t know what my mother is planning. She doesn’t tell me what she tells the army on the border. They could be readying themselves to cross into She tomorrow for all I know.’

‘She would tell you that. If you spoke to Prince Li without full knowledge, that would threaten your communications with him instantly.’

‘Supposing even Prince Li knew. You know what my mother is like. She could have Kaehai’s whole army on their doorstep before their scouts even had word to the King and Queen.’

Jian Yi knew what Zhengxi was thinking: _No one is that furtive._

Except that he didn’t say it, because they both knew it was true. His mother was not a She, sly and fox-like, but she was secretive in a way Jian Yi had never known. She had kept things from him so tightly—about his father, about Kaehai and its court—that he no longer assumed he knew anything about the Empire and its workings at all.

Zhengxi’s skin was flushed lightly; the rooms had grown warm and hot from the fire, and Jian Yi’s eyes kept catching on the opening of his shirt. The problem with wearing clothes that buttoned up so tightly in this city, was that every glimpse of his skin was startling.

When Jian Yi had gone with him to his kingdom, and Zhengxi had worn Noroi clothing, Jian Yi had driven himself mad; bare arms, naked wrists, a neckline the dipped low to his sternum. It was too much.

‘I don’t know what to offer him,’ said Jian Yi.

‘What did your mother say you could?’

Jian Yi passed him a sly look. ‘What do you think?’

‘Do what you think a prince would do?’

Jian Yi’s lips curved into a smile. ‘You know her more than you know me.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Jian Yi paused, mouth open, and cleared his throat. ‘Well?’

Zhengxi leaned back into the sofa, his long legs kicked out, hands across his stomach. ‘You cannot agree to ally with them. They will demand too much of Kaehai; it will become imbalanced easily.’

‘I don’t have the authority. Even if I did, I couldn’t. If my mother wanted that, she would have offered an alliance already. The treaty will have to suffice.’

‘Will you give them back their land?’

‘If we did, not all of it.’

‘Once you give them a little—’

‘They will demand the whole thing,’ said Jian Yi, nodding. ‘They will demand more. It was how it was last time: they always wanted more.’

‘Kaehai has been the same,’ Zhengxi said. His tone was tentative. ‘An empire does not grow from sitting ildly by and waiting for kingdoms to hand themselves over.’

‘I know. I’m not… excusing Kaehai’s past. That’s not what I want to do. I just want to stop another war from breaking out.’

‘If it did, you would thwart them easily.’

‘At what cost? I made that threat to Prince Li. You heard what I said. We cannot be lenient once we win.’

Zhengxi’s brows drew in, and Jian Yi watched him think. The look of him, like this, contemplative and willing, was going to stay with Jian Yi for the rest of his life. He looked like everything Jian Yi had loved in him, before it ever became something more: a friend, a companion, a confidante. Somebody he could trust.

He felt the words of emancipation still on his lips. If Zhengxi had heard them, and stood, and walked from the palace, what would Jian Yi have done? In a few years, he would do so, and it was terrifying. Not because Zhengxi would not be there, but because Jian Yi had placed every position a prince needed onto one person, and if he went, Jian Yi would be alone. When it was his time, how was he supposed to rule an empire without him?

Jian Yi thought that something, perhaps, had gone wrong. A companion was everything that Zhengxi was; they were to learn more from the child of an empire than the child was of them, and yet Jian Yi felt he had learnt nothing, and taught nothing.

‘Don’t doubt yourself.’

Jian Yi lifted his eyes from the treaty papers. Zhengxi’s blue eyes were intense where they fell on him.

‘You will find a way,’ said Zhengxi. ‘You always do.’

‘Because you are with me,’ said Jian Yi. And he knew that the rest lay unsaid: _For now._

There was a pause. ‘What about Far?’ said Zhengxi. ‘They are almost pacifist, but they would side with you if it brought them benefit.’

‘We would hope. Our trade agreements are secure. Our strength would encourage them to provide troops even if they were unneeded. Appearances.’

‘But?’ said Zhengxi.

‘But if your mother and father supported She—’

‘I said they would never break the alliance—’

‘ _If they did_ , Far might follow. We have been a power for a thousand years. They might wish to change that.’

‘Even if Noroi and Far sided with She, it would not give them a win.’

‘It would be close,’ said Jian Yi.

‘You don’t believe that.’

‘Our army has been virtually idle for thirty years, Zhengxi. The momentum of success has faded.’

‘The Kaehaian Army is— _elite_ ,’ said Zhengxi. ‘Noroi’s army is _nothing_ in comparison.’

‘The army,’ said Jian Yi. ‘And General He. There is another factor.’

‘You don’t think—’

‘Kaehai was the He’s once. The General might wish for it to be his again.’

‘He Tian would never support such a coup.’

‘No. But He Tian controls Kaehai’s guard, not its army. That is his brother.’

‘The army is royalist. It always has been. They would not turn against your mother.’

‘I don’t know that,’ said Jian Yi. ‘Like I said, I know nothing about the army. If my mother tells me nothing, why should I assume that that is a good thing?’

Zhengxi’s response was to run his hands through his hair. He was leaning forward now, and Jian Yi watched as he stood and moved to the cabinet against the wall, pulling a bottle and two ivory-coated cups from inside.

‘So,’ he said, as the wine sloshed quietly into the cups. ‘We cannot have war.’

‘No,’ said Jian Yi. He held a hand out, waiting as Zhengxi sipped shallowly from both cups, before handing one to him. ‘We cannot have war.’ He said, ‘Perhaps I should be marrying She Li instead.’

The words arrested Zhengxi’s movements, just for a moment, before he sat back down. He was closer, this time, and if Jian Yi moved, their sides might be touching.

‘I’m sure we can—find an alternative,’ said Zhengxi.

His voice was stiff, and Jian Yi smiled into his cup. The wine was bitter and astringent and made Jian Yi’s mouth feel dry as he swallowed it down.

‘A triumvirate,’ said Jian Yi, watching with slight pleasure as Zhengxi choked on his wine.

‘I don’t think—that will be necessary.’

Jian Yi thought about She Li, his amber eyes, and paused. ‘Perhas you are right.’

‘I am right. The heir to this empire should have someone who knows what they are talking about.’

The smile on Jian Yi’s face changed its shape, and he felt the way it softened on his face. He put his cup on the table, and turned to Zhengxi. His hands lay limp and loose in his lap. Zhengxi’s eyes caught on them—their innocuousness, and let his eyes meet Jian Yi’s.

‘What?’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ said Jian Yi. ‘For being here. For being someone I can talk to.’

Zhengxi’s face was a slow flame. ‘You know I am here for you. Always.’

‘Because you want to be.’

‘Because I want to be with you.’

Jian Yi nodded.

Zhengxi said, ‘I would give my life to protect you.’

‘I don’t want that,’ said Jian Yi, feeling the ache of those words. ‘If you are gone, who will I have then?’

‘I’m sure you’ll manage.’

Jian Yi shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, and this time he closed the gap. Turned like this, his knees were touching Zhengxi’s. It was mundane contact; it meant nothing. It felt like the wine, leaving that dry taste on his tongue, longing for something sweeter. Something more.

Zhengxi’s eyes had grown dark. The palace around them had grown silent with the late hour. It felt like being the only two alive; the only two awake. Like the rest of the world had gone quiet and still so it could give them this—so they could have everything and let it be wholly theirs.

‘Kiss me,’ said Jian Yi.

‘You said—’

‘I know what I said. And now I am saying this.’

‘Jian Yi—’

‘Kiss me, Zhengxi.’ _Please. Show me that this is something you really want. Something you want to give me._

Zhengxi was still, for a while, just looking at him, and when he shifted it was enough for Jian Yi’s heart to pound through every vessel in his body, one resounding, deafening beat of realisation. He was going to do this.

Zhengxi’s eyes fell on Jian Yi’s lips, and then to his eyes, growing closer, and Jian Yi’s eyes fluttered shut when he felt the warmth on his lips.

It should have been soft. It should have been quiet, a sound filled by heartbeats and quiet breathing, but it was not. Heat and orange flames were lighting him on fire from the inside, and they licked at his skin.

Jian Yi couldn’t help it when his hands moved from his lap and found themselves bunched in Zhengxi’s long hair, pulling the cloth from it that kept it tied back. He could not help that his mouth was open and willing, and that he was ready for anything Zhengxi wanted to give him. He could not help that the tentative space that had been built between them, an arch of their separate bodies, collapsed as Jian Yi pushed forward, and the space that had existed was shattered and forgotten.

Jian Yi wanted nothing but this closeness. He wanted nothing but Zhengxi’s hands, warm and calloused and strong, fitting against his jaw, and his mouth that fed from Jian Yi like something that was starved.

‘I wanted it to be slow,’ Zhengxi gasped, when they broke away. The blue of his irises had been chased out by blown pupils, and there was nothing but darkness and the glistening red of bruised lips. Jian Yi had made him look like this. ‘I wanted—to give you—’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Jian Yi, and the moment of parting was over; Jian Yi was pressing at him again, and Zhengxi was pushing him back, his head against the cushions of the sofa, his back curving upwards, chest against him, rising to meet him. This was everything—he couldn’t shy from this.

There was a hand in his hair, fingers teasing at the nape, and Jian Yi’s mind was spinning with it—the softness, the hardness, the conflict of it all as they tried to find something in the space between the two of them that didn’t exist. Something that was level, and equal. Could they make something that was both of them and neither of them, wholly?

‘We have to stop,’ Zhengxi breathed, eventually. He was kneeling over Jian Yi, sensate, shadowed. His breath and his words fell somewhere onto the slope of Jian Yi’s neck. The skin felt hot, and it felt like Jian Yi was feeling it everywhere.

‘I know,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t want to.’

He caught the struggle as Zhengxi pulled away, and his arms fell from the tangle they had made of themselves around Zhengxi’s back.

Zhengxi said, ‘Neither do I,’ and Jian Yi didn’t think it was possible to feel this much, for his heart to feel like it was beating for something and not just because.

Jian Yi believed him, and something was careening inside him at the truth of it.

Zhengxi, sitting away from him now, pulling his hair into a knot over his shoulder, eyes low, was smiling. Jian Yi, lying where Zhengxi had put him, and feeling his touch like it was still there, was smiling too.

 

* * *

 

The sun had barely broken the horizon when He Tian left his rooms. The light was a cloak of hazy, formless grey, and mist had settled through the courtyards and across the gardens.

He had not slept, and was dizzy with it. He was coming to know this feeling well by now, and his stomach felt tight and empty as he made his way through the palace grounds and towards the Royal Prison.

He should have guarded the prison last night, except the duty was below him, and he knew the prisoners would have said nothing to Guan Shan if he had been there.

 _This was a mistake,_ he thought, and the thought brought him up short. He did not make mistakes. He did not allow himself into an environment where that could be possible. And now Guan Shan had let him into it, and made it so. _He will ruin me_ , he thought, not for the first time. But what was new was the thing that followed: _And I think I would let him._

He was a few minutes from the prison when he heard the sound of hooves pounding into cobblestones, and the fog made it almost impossible to see the horse until it was looming, huge and dark through the dense air, and was brought up short and sudden at his side.

Bai Yang dismounted, and he had a scroll of parchment outstretched.

‘There has been a riot in the East Fields,’ he said, as He Tian took the scroll. ‘A messenger arrived half an hour ago.’

The horse was heaving with breath, nostrils flared, flanks quivering. The quiet dawn air was trembling with the sound, and it was a weight in He Tian’s head as he read.

His eyes darted across the words. _Fires_ _… Children… Taxes…_

‘This is the army’s business,’ he said. ‘We don’t employ the guard for rioting.’

‘The disturbance was small enough. The Empress doesn’t want the General leaving the border while She Li is here. Her orders are to leave immediately.’

‘Now?’

Bai Yang gave him a strange look. ‘I have your horse prepared,’ he said. ‘The rest of the company are waiting. We must leave immediately. It is a few days’ ride.’

‘I have business in the prison.’

‘It can wait. People are dead. Sir.’

‘And the intruder? Her Majesty would have me leave while her son is threatened?’ His mind was running through a thousand possibilities. What if She had prompted the rioting to draw him away from Kai? What if there was no rioting? What if he was killed, and Guan Shan lay waiting in that prison forever?

‘The Princess of Noroi has her guard here. She Li will be bringing his own. The Prince and Empress will be well-defended by the palace guards for a few days.’

He Tian swallowed the nausea down. Was this what it was like? Wanting to have something and being denied at every corner?

Bai Yang was watching him, and He Tian could see the frown lining the man’s forehead. This was unlike him, he knew. A month ago, he would have mounted Bai Yang’s horse and ridden to the East Fields without waiting for a company. He was asking questions, when he should have already left. Bai Yang was from the East Fields, and He Tian realised what this looked like, hesitant to give his people help.

He Tian felt his gloved hands curl into fists, and he felt the ache of his knuckles on his right hand. He could have been gentle, and should have been, but he had not been able to help it. The feel, after, and the look on Guan Shan’s face, the wretched determinism, the barely veiled pain, had done nothing to help him pretend it didn’t exist.

 _He_ _’ll be fine,_ He Tian told himself. Bai Yang was right. People were dead. Guan Shan would have to wait.

The realisation hit him like a fist slammed across his face, and he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on my [Tumblr](http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Please leave **kudos** or a **comment** , or leave some love on the [original post on Tumblr!](http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/post/154692067549/dawn-rising-10)


	11. The East Fields

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on [my Tumblr!](http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com)
> 
> My endless gratitude to [sub_textual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sub_textual/pseuds/sub_textual) for beta'ing my work~! x
> 
> Note: I made an error regarding Pai Yong's name (whose name does not actually exist within Chinese naming practices), so I have changed his name to 'Bai Yang'. I am also going to begin calling He Tian's brother 'He Di' unless/until Old Xian gives us a name otherwise. Since the recent update, we now also know that Zhengxi's sister is called Zhan Zixi, so I will be using her name now, too.

‘Oh stars, he’s early.’

Jian Yi narrowed his eyes. ‘He must want something.’

He came to stand next to the Princess of Noroi. Bright light washed over them through one of the huge windows overlooking the entry gates to the palace, and the main courtyard below. She Li did not ride a carriage, as Zixi had done; instead he sat astride a well-framed palfrey, his silver hair a beacon, the She banner held high by a member of his company. They were olive-skinned and silver-haired, though none as distinctive as their Prince.

Jian Yi felt the disturbing realisation of having let the enemy into his palace.

He watched as the horsemen came to a standstill in the courtyard, already dismounting and pulling off gloves. Servants from the palace were spilling out, unbuckling and shouldering packs from the backs of the horses, boys and girls from the stables leading the horses away by the reins, attendants bringing forward fresh cups of cool tea and wet cloths for sun-warm, riding-dirt skin.

She Li was still sitting astride his horse, staring up at the palace, across its windowed facades, at its archways and alcoves, at the covered walkways that led back to the grounds and the nestled clusters of buildings: servants’ quarters, stables, barracks, the prison. His gaze swung to the central window of the palace, and for a second, his gaze met Jian Yi’s. Neither moved, and then there was the slightest incline of his head. Jian Yi nodded back.

Zixi’s hand curled at the window pane, her expression torn between longing and something like a smile. Jian Yi looked away.

‘Come,’ Jian Yi said, walking away.

‘I forget how handsome he is,’ Zixi said, following him through the hallways and down the Empress’ Staircase in the center of the palace. The marbled steps dipped slightly, downtrodden and impressed after a thousand years.

‘Restrain yourself,’ said Jian Yi. ‘Remember why he is here. It’s not to see you.’

‘You don’t have to be cruel about it.’

Jian Yi shrugged. ‘Would you listen otherwise?’ he said.

They passed Zhengxi, who was speaking with a noble in one of the galleries.

‘What is it?’ said Zhengxi, once the noble had bowed to Jian Yi and Zixi, and pardoned himself. Behind Zhengxi was a portrait of the Empress, fifteen, hair to her waist. She sat astride a white destrier, caught between a war-readiness and willingness to join some creature of the fae. A smile curved her lips, grey eyes shining through the acrylic, and Jian Yi never knew what it meant. He wondered, mostly, if the artist had put it in herself, some token gesture: _This is what our Empress could look like with a curved mouth._

The beauty of it was terrifying, and damning, and Jian Yi supposed it might have been better that his mother remained usually unsmiling and cold.

‘Jian Yi?’

Jian Yi pulled his eyes to Zhengxi. ‘She Li,’ he said. ‘He has just arrived in the courtyard.’

‘Already?’ said Zhengxi, eyes wide. ‘He should not be here for another few days.’

‘And yet,’ said Jian Yi, moving again, the royal siblings of Noroi falling into step with him.

He was conscious of He Tian’s sudden departure earlier in the week, taking with him some of the best members of the Imperial Guard. It was not the first time the Guard had been deployed—they often dealt with small domestic issues when the army were not needed—but Jian Yi could not understand why He Tian had been sent in place of the General or army troops when the Empress was so adamant about guarding Jian Yi’s safety.

Perhaps, he wondered, not for the first time, things on the border were more rife with tension than they had first seemed. The possibility gnawed at him. Soon, he would need to visit General He. Jian Yi was beginning to understand that some things could not be done from a palace.

The air was warm outside, a lush spring that was being beckoned by the beginnings of summer, but the nights were still cold and left frost on the grounds in the mornings. The courtyard was bathed in sunlight, catching the rays and washing everything in gold-tinged light. Jian Yi hoped this was auspicious.

Jian Yi moved first towards the Prince, and waited at the bottom of the steps, boots hitting the smooth stones.

‘You must greet him as an equal,’ Zhengxi had said a few nights ago, when their conversation had changed from something heated and marked by mouths touching mouths. ‘Set a precedence.’

‘I hardly want to bother when he’s like—that.’

‘Then you risk political negotiations over something as ridiculous as where you stand and how you look at him and how you talk to him. You’re better than that. You’re better than him.’

‘Careful,’ said Jian Yi, half-joking. ‘Someone might start to think you harbour ill-will towards She.’

Zhengxi’s look was flat. ‘Be careful with him. Be . . . _smart_.’

‘I _am_ smart.’

‘When you want to be.’

Jian Yi grinned.

The Prince of She was looking at him now with a lazy attentiveness, and Jian Yi lifted his chin, watching as She Li dismounted his horse and brushed himself down. He held his riding gloves tightly in his hand; his cloak was the royal colour of She, a darkened, too-ripe plum, and barely crinkled. Beneath it, he wore black riding leathers, and his silver hair and wolf-like amber eyes were glittering against the backdrop of darkness.

‘We welcome your early return to the Kaehaian Empire, Prince She Li,’ said Jian Yi, as She Li’s company, soldiers and attendants, bowed low before him.

She Li nodded. They did not shake hands, or share an embrace, or a kiss. Instead, he simply said, ‘My thanks, Prince Jian Yi. I look forward to my stay in your homeland. Let us hope we make great progress for the benefit of both our nations.’

Jian Yi smiled tightly. The words were words. The possibility of war trembled around them, and neither was sure which outcome the other thought preferable. If She waged war, Jian Yi had promised annihilation that, now, he was uncertain of. Did She Li know of the uncertainty before Jian Yi had said it, weeks ago in the garden pavilion? Had She already approached Far, or garnered some approval from Noroi?

‘You must be tired from your journey,’ said Jian Yi. ‘I will have a servant show you to your rooms—’

‘Your hospitality is appreciated but unnecessary,’ She Li cut in. ‘I realise my arrival was . . . unexpected, but I would like to begin discussions as soon as possible.’

Jian Yi paused. ‘Of course,’ he said, after a while. He could feel Zhengxi’s heavy, watchful gaze lingering on their conversation. He wanted to look at him, and couldn’t. ‘I will have refreshments brought to one of the council chambers.’

‘Thank you,’ said She Li. ‘Establishing an amenable relationship between She and Kaehai is, after all, of the utmost importance to me.’

 

* * *

 

The chamber was too big, and too empty for the two of them—and the scribe—and the fire was encouraging a lick of sweat to break out across Jian Yi’s forehead. The day was warm enough, the sun creeping through high windows and onto the dark oak table that stretched out through the length of the room.

Papers were strewn about them, written in Jian Yi’s hand, in She Li’s, writing sharp and glancing, ink spilling in a web around them.

‘I appreciate your asking the Prince and Princess of Noroi for some privacy.’

Jian Yi glanced up at him. ‘Zhengxi would be within his rights as my companion to remain. They chose to leave out of respect to you, and in respect of the treaty.’

She Li made a quiet sound, but remained otherwise silent. After a few moments, he lay down the sheets of paper he held in his hands.

‘No alliance,’ he said. The word was a question, but it was flat.

Jian Yi said, ‘Perhaps you may understand why. I’m still only an ambassador to my mother. If she wished an alliance, she would have made the correct entreaties to your mother and father.’

‘My mother and father have not made an attempt, either.’

Jian Yi’s eyes flickered. ‘Then we understand each other.’

She Li ran a thumb across his lip. It would have been easy to assume that the Prince was relaxed, hands falling to clasp across his stomach, elbows on the armrest, but that would be assuming this was not more important than it was. She Li, Jian Yi knew, was not arrogant enough to display that lazed, drawling ego during a discussion like this. It did not mean that Jian Yi’s eyes didn’t narrow on him, or that speaking with him was not unlike prodding at a snake, seeing if it was docile or dripping with poison from its fangs.

‘It would be simpler,’ She Li said, ‘if there were an alliance.’

‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’

She Li breathed a soft laugh. ‘And so in its place, you offer me . . . what, exactly?’

‘You spoke with the King and Queen of She. I’d like to hear their request first. It would be . . . asinine to pretend She doesn’t want something.’

She Li’s eyes were two sets of glinting, inlaid stones of amber. ‘I don’t think we’ve ever pretended otherwise.’

 _Is this where I thank you for you candour?_ Jian Yi thought. _Is there where we should be grateful for unapologetic belligerence?_

‘Give us land in the East Fields,’ said She Li, ‘and we will retreat from the borders. We will not attempt to reclaim the land was once ours.’

‘The East Fields,’ said Jian Yi. The words were frozen wastelands and still, hot days. They didn’t tremble or hesitate. He was staring. ‘Why . . . would you want land in the East Fields.’ It was barely a question.

The East Fields was Kaehai’s main agricultural region, far to the east of Kai, further from She or Far or Noroi. The climate was warm, but the land was rural enough to be ascetic. Towns were small; there were no cities; families lived in small clusters and worked the land they lived on. The produce, they used for themselves, or sold to the western cities in Kaehai. Kai was dependent on the East Fields to feed its population and to sell produce, onward, to other kingdoms.

‘She is small, with a growing population,’ She Li said. ‘Much of your land is uninhabited in the East.’

‘Noroi is closer to She.’

‘Noroi would never sell land to She. Not for anything.’

Jian Yi could not help that he was looking at him so closely, as if She Li would start to break apart soon, reveal himself between the cracks. Where, Jian Yi wondered, could he start to peel at the edges without him noticing? Did the Prince have cracks in the wooden surface of him that Jian Yi could peer through, an eye peering through a ready-made keyhole?

‘So,’ Jian Yi said evenly. ‘If we were to be specific. She currently pays tribute to Kaehai annually.’

‘Yes,’ said She Li. The word was hard. It said everything it needed to.

‘You withdraw your troops from the border. We allow you use of currently unused, arable land—’

 _‘Give_ us land.’

‘ _Allow you use._ It will not be yours. Twenty percent of produce grown will be returned to Kaehai.’

‘This sounds suspiciously like serfdom.’

Jian Yi blinked. He watched She Li’s jaw shift.

‘Ten percent.’

‘Fifteen,’ said Jian Yi.  

‘Thirty thousand square kilometres of land.’

‘Twenty thousand,’ said Jian Yi. The Kaehaian Empire was huge; it did not have enough people to fill it. Twenty thousand square kilometres was, really, nothing. Jian Yi was intrigued that She Li had asked for so little.

‘Twenty-five.’

Jian Yi inclined his head. ‘This will have to be approved by the Empress entirely.’

She Li was smiling now. ‘Of course.’

‘And the land will be used for nothing but agricultural purposes. You will keep no troops there. No armory. Kaehai will position troops in the region to maintain order.’ _To stop you from doing anything you shouldn’t be doing._

‘Of course.’

It was the calm before the storm, the drawn-out silence of a shore before the tsunami. It was the silence of a forest, of a birdless sky, very, very quietly waiting. Jian Yi was aware, too aware, that he did not know what that quietness was waiting for.

Land. Arable farmland. In the remotest regions of the Empire. What would She need it for?

Perhaps Zhengxi would have said he could have trust She Li. No—not trust. Simply, he would have been waiting, too. _See what happens. But do not turn your back on a wolf._

Jian Yi felt his absence, beside him. A warm arm pressed against his, gone.

This was all too easy. They had been in the chamber a scant few hours, the scribe’s stylus scritching against reams of parchment. Treaties like this should have taken days—weeks. They should have disintegrated into argument and disagreement and outrage. They should have led to war.

Jian Yi didn’t want war, but he had thought it inevitable. He had accepted it as truth. This was everything he had not expected.

‘There will be more to discuss, of course,’ said She Li. He was looking at Jian Yi like he knew this—that Jian Yi had been anticipating difficulty, and violence. ‘But it would be best to discuss this with the Empress before we continue.’

Jian Yi clenched his fists under the table. What would his mother say to this? Would she listen, unblinking, and nod? Would she, like Zhengxi, give him the responsibility of this decision and tell him to be careful? Would she tell him only that he was being naive, and foolish, and had far more to learn if he would accept such a proposition?

He thought of her, fifteen, astride the white beast of a horse, that smile curling out through the canvas, and stared evenly back at the Prince of She.

‘Has this been declared by the King and Queen of She as being their wishes?’

She Li reached into the inside of his shirt, where the collar parted, and pulled a sealed envelope from an inner pocket. When Jian Yi took it, it was skin-warm. He turned it over in his hands. It was addressed to his mother.

If She Li had been killed, a stray arrow, on the roads from She to Kai, the parchment would be bloodstained and ruined. She would have accused Kaehai of assassination; Kaehai would have risen to the challenge of war. Wars had been started for less than a murdered heir. And the missive in his hands, now, was preventing one.

He understood why She Li had kept it so close—entrusted it with no one—and thought it only typical that She clothing would allow for a pocket on the inside of a shirt: secretive, furtive, skin-close, hidden from anyone who wasn’t looking.

‘I will give this to my mother,’ said Jian Yi. He tucked it into an inner pocket of his coat. ‘It is not my place to read it.’

‘Very well,’ She Li said, and smiled.

 

* * *

 

They broke for lunch when the afternoon grew late. Rain fell for a few hours beneath purpled clouds, and when they parted, the palace grounds were gold-tinged, shivering with glassy droplets and streaks of coloured light bowed across the sky.

 _Auspicious,_ Jian Yi thought again. He mistrusted it on principle.

The small, private dining room where Jian Yi and Zhengxi frequently ate was busy now with the movement of serving girls and boys. They brought in platters of figs and cheeses and black honey imported from the south, as well as dark, sour breads from Far, and bowls of light congee.

Jian Yi ate carefully, and Zhengxi barely ate at all. Princess Zhan was almost sitting in She Li’s lap.

‘Your negotiations went well?’ said Zhengxi. His tone was light, too polite.

‘Very well,’ said Jian Yi. _Too well._ Zhengxi’s look was questioning.

‘Will you have to work _all_ day?’ said Zixi, eyes large and doe-eyed as she looked at She Li. Jian Yi watched with dawning horror as she raised a piece of bread to the Prince of She’s mouth, and stared as She Li plucked it deftly from her fingers with his own and gave her a smile that Jian Yi trusted as much as the skies.

‘I think we’ve made positive progress today,’ said She Li. He had put the bread onto his plate. Zixi was looking at it. ‘We have set a foundation from which to continue, and I think a fresh start in the morning would be beneficial.’

‘I agree,’ said Jian Yi, but he did not want to. Agreeing with the She Li felt . . . _wrong_. Perhaps some enemies were meant to be natural; perhaps some kingdoms were supposed to be at war with one another. Jian Yi knew what these thoughts were like, and what they meant. He knew that to indulge in them would betray a peace of thirty years that his mother had worked hard to sustain. Uncertainty swelled inside him.

‘Is there anything you would to do this afternoon?’ Jian Yi asked. ‘The Empress has some time this afternoon if you would like a reception with her.’

She Li shook his head. ‘My meetings with the Empress have been planned later in the week already, and I came early.’ Something thoughtful moved across his face. ‘I did not have time for a tour of the palace the last time I was here.’

There was a pause, and then Jian Yi’s eyes slid to Zhengxi’s sister. ‘Perhaps, Princess Zhan Zixi might be kind enough to show you. She knows the palace well enough.’

She Li turned to her, with an eyebrow raised, an appraising look. ‘Is that so?’

‘Well enough,’ Zixi said, head slightly bowed. There was a red stain working across her cheeks. ‘What would you like to see?’

‘The galleries, of course. The gardens. The barracks. The prisons—’

‘You want to see the prisons?’ She stifled a laugh. ‘You have a morbid sense of humour.’

‘Hardly,’ he said. He wore the easy smile of a confidante. Of an obliging, patient suitor. ‘My interests are in the welfare of She’s people. I am sure there are things to be learnt from how the Royal Prison of the Empire conducts itself.’

This wasn’t something Zixi could understand, and Jian Yi saw that plainly. Maltreatment of prisoners would give the Prince ammunition to take back to the King and Queen. It was a petty, easy thing, disguised neatly beneath the illusion of care and social concern. Visiting She, Jian Yi would have done the same.

‘Very well,’ said Zixi, rising from the table. ‘If you are finished, we will excuse ourselves.’

Jian Yi stilled as She Li stared at the outstretched hand, small and delicate, and at the Princess whose eyes were entirely too-hopeful. Carefully, slowly, She Li took it, and pushed himself to his feet.

‘Of course,’ he said. He inclined a head to Jian Yi and Zhengxi, and they watched as She Li was led by the hand from the dining room by Zhengxi’s sister.

In the silence, Jian Yi slouched in his seat and ran a hand across his forehead.

Zhengxi said, ‘Do you enjoy throwing my sister to the wolves?’

Jian Yi closed his eyes. ‘That’s not what that was.’

‘No? She’s not some—pawn to be used, Jian Yi. She’s a person. She’s a princess. And he is _dangerous._ ’

‘He wants peace, Zhengxi. He came wanting peace.’

‘Did he? You’re sure about that?’

‘His troops will be withdrawn in exchange for land.’

‘You said—’

‘Not land at the border. Not what was—theirs. Agricultural land. In the East Fields.’

Zhengxi’s stare was heavy, and bewildered. ‘The stars, for—for _what_?’

‘Produce. A growing population.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘I know you said to be careful but—’

‘You have no idea what She Li intends to do with this.’

‘If we don’t trust something, on the surface, that seems trustworthy, what else is there to do but to go to war?’

Zhengxi had his jaw clenched. He was tearing a piece of bread into small pieces like a disintegrating ball of snow. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘war would be preferable now. If you can’t see the truth of She Li’s actions _now_ , then perhaps it will be too late when they come to pass.’

‘It is land, Zhengxi. I’ve said we would station patrols there, as we would in any region. They will have a produce quota to fill. If it is not met, we’ll know something is wrong.’

‘And then it will be too late.’

The sun was darkening through the tall windows. Tonight, perhaps for the rest of the week, there would be more rain—a storm, maybe, wine-dark clouds and brutal, breaking thunder that rattled the glass panes and trembled the stone foundations of the palace. Jian Yi heard Zhengxi’s words, and knew that whatever storm came tonight, those words heralded something greater.

‘I cannot refuse this, Zhengxi. You know I can’t.’

Zhengxi stare was resolute, and achingly blue. ‘I know. That’s why—I hate this. I feel like he’s driving you into a corner that I can’t pull you out from or protect you from, and . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Talk to the Empress. She will make your decision for you—it has reached a point where she should be the one to approve a decision such as this. Whatever happens from then on will be on her shoulders. She rules this Empire, Jian Yi. It is her responsibility. Not yours.’

‘How can I want responsibility and then refuse to take it when I have the opportunity?’

‘This isn’t about that.’ Zhengxi reached across the table, where Jian Yi’s fine wrist bones were resting on the edge, fingers toying with an unused knife. He gripped one of Jian Yi’s hands, and Jian Yi let the knife clatter onto the table. The grip was warm. It felt more certain than Jian Yi had felt all day. ‘This isn’t about you—not fulfilling duty, or being a proper heir. I’m telling you that this is the right thing to do now.’

‘This doesn’t feel right.’ Nothing, except for the slow stroke of Zhengxi’s thumb brushing across the back of his hand, felt right. Jian Yi could taste the wrongness of it in his mouth like too-sour bread, or pithy, astringent wine that coated the roof of his mouth.

Zhengxi’s eyes, when he met them, were sad, but resolute. ‘I think it’s all that’s left.’

 

* * *

 

Guan Shan’s back had been burning for days.

He could feel the twinge of his scars. He could feel the tender press of the bruise on his cheek that had lingered too long. He could feel the stone floor through his pallet. He could feel the ache of his stomach where he had eaten too little and refused too much. It had been arrogance.

Almost a week.

He had been in the prison weeks, the first time. Only, then, he hadn’t known when he would be released. The not-knowing had been a comfort.

This time, it should have been less than a few days. It should have been the morning, when fog curled around the grounds, and through the barred cell windows. It should have been the day when Guan Shan could hear the movement of guards and horses in the nearby barracks and realised, as night fell, and He Tian did not come; that the sudden exodus of guards from the palace had included He Tian.

He had left.

The thought shuddered through Guan Shan now. He felt raw with it.

‘Maybe today,’ a voice drawled from a nearby cell.

Guan Shan didn’t reply. He pressed himself further into the corner of his cell, back to the join of the walls, the coat draped over his knees, and tucked up to his chin. He Tian’s coat.

It still smelled of him.

Guan Shan squeezed his eyes shut.

‘Were a thief, weren’t you? Before you became his plaything? Why don’t you break yourself out?’

‘Because it’s that easy,’ Guan Shan muttered.

‘A thing like you. Could have fucked the guards and taken the keys.’

Guan Shan felt the laughter bubble hysterically within him at the man’s suggestion. The first time, before He Tian had ruined it with his strange nobility, that had been exactly Guan Shan’s plan. Kneel on the floor and wait for an oversight. Now, the thought of doing it terrified him.

He Tian had made him soft. He Tian had made him think that there were _alternatives_ and ways for things that would hurt to not hurt so _much_. He Tian had made Guan Shan expect that he would be there for him, a dark figure at the front of his cell, opening the doors; a hard, solid presence in a midnight garden; something lingering at his bedside while he thought he slept, just watching; someone who gave him his coat, and cleaned his cuts.

 _Fuck you, He Tian,_ Guan Shan thought. _Fuck you and your one days. Fuck you and your let mes. Fuck you and your you can stays. Fuck you._

Guan Shan curved a hand over his eyes. No one would see him, like this, but the embarrassment of it lurked there still. That he had been reduced to this. That He Tian had made him like this: soft and receptive and sensitive.

Fundamentally, he doubted this. Fundamentally, he knew that, probably, he had always been like this, and had yet to cut it from him like an old layer of skin he no longer needed, or an organ he had no use for. He knew that He Tian had nothing, really, to do with this, and that it was everything to do with himself—who he was; who he had been.

Blearily, he heard the sound of the doors opening at the entrance to the prison. He heard the footsteps approaching, and would have felt his heart surge at the sound had he not known, already, what He Tian’s gait sounded like. He had waited most nights, in He Tian’s lodgings, for him to come back. Waited, at first, in case he would need to defend himself. Waited, after, just to hear He Tian’s return.

The gait was not his, and yet it was familiar. He heard a woman’s voice, lightly accented—Noroi?—and a man’s, deeper, cutting her off. Two sets of footsteps turned to one, and Guan Shan pulled himself up slightly.

Afternoon light struggled through the ground-level windows of the cell. The air smelled of petrichor and wet grass and the sharp, sweet scent of soaked earth. It was the smell of rainfall, and rain waiting to fall, and the small glimpse Guan Shan had of the outside world, on his tiptoes, did not include the sky. A heavenless view was a small, private insanity all of its own.

_Fuck you, He Tian._

In the shadowed prison, a figure stopped, and came into view in front of Guan Shan, and it was a while before Guan Shan’s mind could fit the puzzle pieces of what he was seeing—who he was seeing—together.

‘Hello, Red.’

It was his voice. His hair; those amber eyes. Guan Shan stared.

Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet, holding the coat against his front as he walked to the cell bars.

‘When Grey sent word to me, I wasn’t quite sure what to believe. I told you enough times not to be an idiot. Not to get caught. I told you enough times that I wouldn’t pull you out if you got into a mess.’

Guan Shan couldn’t hear the warning, or the disapproval that always struck him—the disappointment. He could not accept that his mind was telling him that this was real, and that he was not some dreamt-up, illucid product of his imagination. Too little to eat; too desperate for company. He said, only, ‘How are you—What are you _doing_ here?’

Silver continued like hadn’t spoken: ‘And _then_ imagine my surprise when I learn from the guards why you’re really here. What you’ve been locked up for.’

Guan Shan couldn’t stop staring. How was he—how was someone like him standing there, on the other side of a cell, while Guan Shan was barred and sightless. The guards should have been arresting him. They should have—didn’t they know who he _was_?

‘Clever boy,’ he murmured. ‘Getting into the bed of the Empress’ dog. You’ll tell me what it’s like later, won’t you?’

Guan Shan felt something in him sinking at that tone. He wrapped his hands around the bars. ‘How are you _here_?’

Silver smiled at him, small, conspiratorial. He made everything like sharing secrets. Guan Shan thought only, ever, that he shared more than Silver ever gave him. ‘We all have our ways.’

‘Silver—’

‘Hush,’ he murmured. ‘I think, perhaps, I haven’t been entirely honest with you.’ His eyes dragged up and down the length of Guan Shan, and it felt like being stripped of his flesh and relaid with something new—something that belonged to Silver. His eyes lingered on the coat Guan Shan was holding against him. It should have made him want to drop it—to throw it away. Instead, he felt the ridiculous desire of wanting to bring it closer. ‘The Prince of She has arrived in Kaehai, and I am a part of his retinue. Merchants commonly accompany members of the royal family.’

Guan Shan didn’t understand. ‘You’re—involved with She royalty?’

‘I’m sorry for having lied to you.’

Guan Shan was shaking his head, blinking fast. ‘If the Prince knew—if the Prince of Kaehai knew that you were part of Kai gang activity—’

‘No, Red. You are a thief, but you are special. The others who work for me are messengers.’

‘Messengers,’ said Guan Shan, flatly. He knew that word. He knew what it meant, in the voice of someone like that. ‘You have—She has spies in Kai—’

Silver pressed closer to the bars. There wasn’t any space between them, iron in their way. He had a gloved hand wrapped around one of the bars, and if he shifted it lower, his fingers would be closing around Guan Shan’s. Guan Shan trembled. He had not been touched in so long, and Silver was so close and—

‘I’m here to rescue you, Guan Shan,’ he whispered. His breath was warm across Guan Shan’s face, and he could smell the lingering remnants of sweet tea. He must have dined with the Prince; with the royals of Kaehai. What was a merchant like Silver, trusted in the Prince of She’s confidences, doing with someone like Guan Shan?

He felt like he was a boy again, the flesh of his back stripped from him, smoke everywhere. Summer heat, sticky and close, and summer rain, warm and burning on his skin. A mouth that tasted of char and stomach acid, dizzy with pain. The streets were flooding with it, the rain a bruising, pummelling thing that felt like needles on his skin, heated iron on his back. The cobbles and alleyways were curling with hot mist, and Guan Shan could hardly see the figures in the streets, spilling from taverns and cloth stores and rushing to their houses, soaked to the bone in seconds.

He could barely make out the boy that had stood in front of him; the rain made his hair look black, plastered to an olive-skinned face. He was finely dressed, and his eyes glowed in the cloud-heavy darkness. Guan Shan had thought, for a brief, pain-lanced moment, that the stars had sent him.

He had taken him to a tavern, paid in gold for a hot meal that Guan Shan hadn’t been able to stomach; hired the services of a physician for his back. He had stayed in the rooms for two weeks, and Silver sat with him every day. Read to him. Spoke to him. Asked him about a home that made Guan Shan tremble and devastated to think about—to talk about.

‘I don’t have one,’ he’d said. It was the pain speaking, tormenting his words, but later he would realise that the ambiguity of them was self-preservation. You did not run from a fire and then throw yourself back in. He would not admit who he was; he had nothing left, and would have to become something other. He would have to pretend he had always been something other.

He said. ‘It broke.’

And Silver said, ‘Why?’

Guan Shan remembered that. Silver asking why. Not how. Most people would have asked how, like it didn’t make sense. Because that answer _hadn’t_ , Guan Shan knew, made sense. Silver asked why like he knew what Guan Shan meant.

And Guan Shan had said, ‘I don’t know.’ His head felt thick with smoke, and burning embers. He felt like he was glowing, fire hot, from the inside out, and his skin was the only barrier left to tear through.

‘I want to help you,’ Silver had said. It had seemed nonsensical to Guan Shan, then, and yet not as much as it should have. Perhaps it had been the pain. Perhaps it had been Silver’s kindness, his rich clothes, his looks. The easy circumstances with which he was here, staying with Guan Shan, as if there were nowhere else he should be—and Guan Shan had never asked why. Whatever it had been, he had heard those words and believed them.

‘You’re a boy. We’re kids.’

Silver had reached over, brushed red hair away from Guan Shan’s face, a cheek pressed into the pillow as he lay on his front. Guan Shan’s back bare, and coated in a cool salve; he wouldn’t have wanted to move even if he could. He closed his eyes, and Silver’s words were heated, ‘You’re fifteen. Don’t underestimate yourself. Don’t underestimate me.’

He stared at Silver through the bars, five years now oscillating in the barely-there space between them.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘Wait for me. A few nights.’ A gloved hand on his cheek, the leather cold from the iron. ‘I’ll come for you. Will you wait?’

It wasn’t the touch that made Guan Shan go still. It was that He Tian had made this promise, and for a short while, a ridiculous space of time, Guan Shan had thought he might trust He Tian more than anyone he ever had. Was he willing to offer himself up for this again, this expectation? Was he willing to put that faith in someone?

He didn’t tell Silver that He Tian could come back before, because he wasn’t sure if he believed in it himself. He thought, sourly, heart aching, that it must have been easy for He Tian to just ride from the palace and not look back. Maybe he hadn’t left at all. Maybe he was still around the grounds somewhere, and he had proven himself to be exactly the sort of person Guan Shan thought he was from the beginning.

Maybe everything, before, had been some elaborate ruse. A joke. Give a thief a bed for a night and see what happens when you take it away. Give a thief your affection and see what happens when they realise they never had it.

Guan Shan gave Silver a steady look. ‘I’ll wait,’ he said, grim. ‘Where else am I going to go?’

 

* * *

 

He Tian had been aching in his saddle for three days now. Under a darkening sky, in a few hours, he would be in Kai. Already, the fields were punctuated by small hamlets, and larger towns, way-towns for merchants carrying trade from the East Fields to Kai, and further. The air carried the sharp scent of petrichor; the dampness was cooler here, compared to the warm dryness of the East Fields. Spring, in the East Fields, felt like the early days of a Kaian summer, dry, rasping throats and nights loud with the thrum of cicadas in the endless expanse of fields.

They did not ruin He Tian’s sleep, because He Tian had barely slept, and he felt aching and stinging as he rode through the towns to Kai. The rioting had almost settled by the time He Tian and his troop had arrived, families burying the few that had been killed, the air thick with the acrid char of smoke, burnt homes and flame-ruined storehouses.

Most of the buildings were untouched—small clusters of houses made of stone and mortar, outhouses for equipment, huge silos for grain—but there was little else in the East Fields to be damaged. Fields surged around them, swallowing up the horizon, barley yellow and green-brown stretches of tomato vine rows. In the distance, He Tian could make out the small awnings of the field houses, where the workers word stop for lunch or break from the sun, and keep the collected produce for mules to collect at the end of the day.

When He Tian was a boy, he had spent a summer or two working in the fields. It had been been hard work, his back aching, his nails embedded with soil, his skin blistering under the sun before it began to tan—but it had been easy, too. Hot, cloudless days spent picking at tomatoes and drinking peach juice, hazed with the bliss of clean air and easy company.

On the day He Tian’s company arrived, the people of the village should have been in the fields, scattered through the vines and the tall barley shoots, white, wide-brimmed hats picking them out like white lilies. If He Tian had arrived accompanying the Empress, or Jian Yi, they would be throwing flowers their feet, and offering gifts of the harvest. He Tian looked around him, and could hear a child crying, and felt smoke cloying his throat.  

Bai Yang was quick to report to He Tian when they arrived, and He Tian dispatched rapid orders to the men and women in his company, already dismounting their horses.

‘Border disputes between She and Kaehai,’ Bai Yang told him, as they watched guards carry barrels of water to still-burning storehouses, smoke curling heavenwards, flames licking upwards like they could reach the afternoon skies too. ‘That’s why they rioted.’

He Tian turned to stare at his second-in-command. Bai Yang was from the East Fields; he had the stature, the dark skin, and could slip easily into the local dialects.

‘Border disputes?’ He Tian said. ‘What have they got to do with the East Fields?’

‘Food supplies,’ said Bai Yang. ‘This is one of the closest villages to Kai. If war breaks, provisions for a campaigning army will be taken from here first. If there’s a bad harvest, these people will be under severe pressure.’

He Tian looked around him, at the villagers huddled around, their darkened, soot-stained faces, their plain clothing. They were not poor, because poverty here did not exist. They lived with the simple means that they had, and if they sought a different life, they travelled to Kai, or another of the smaller Kaehaian cities in the west, where there were city thieves, and merchants, and academics, and physicians, and seamstresses, and where poverty existed as much as wealth.

‘Children from the East Fields are often the first to conscript.’

‘We haven’t had a war in thirty years,’ said He Tian. The last time an attack had been fought was against Far, a handful of years ago, but it had been a short, brutal battle that ended in a swift, clambering attempt for peace. Far could not have beaten Kaehai, and Kaehai had not even conscripted soldiers for the battle—they had fought with barely a third of an already-mobile army.

‘But that was how it always was before. Larger families, more children, more soldiers.’

He Tian shook his head, excusing himself, and headed to one of the makeshift medical tents that had been set up in the village. There were no children, a few men, and fewer women. Most were coughing, being given small cups of water. There were pallets on the floor, sheets and sacks used for grain pulled over still forms. A man, in the far corner, lay with a splintered shaft of wood protruding through his chest.

Beneath smoke-covered skin, he was ashen, and breathing shallowly. It was impossible to tell his age beneath the soot. He had the stocky build of the region’s people—thick, packed muscle under dark skin.

‘What happened?’ He Tian said. A guard was peeling away blood-soaked fabric from his chest, and she looked up as He Tian approached. He didn’t recognise her from his own company.

‘One of the storehouses collapsed,’ she said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She was looking at the man with the expression of someone who knew they had already lost. ‘He got caught in falling debris bringing out a child.’

The man’s eyes were open. His breathing was rattled and high-pitched. He Tian grabbed a water-soaked cloth and squeezed water into the man’s mouth, across his lips, and then brushed it carefully across his face, leaving streaks of ashen skin in its wake.

‘Is it like this elsewhere?’ said He Tian.

‘I was stationed at a small barracks between here and the Kai,’ the guard told him. It explained the haggard look on her face; she must have been here days before the messenger even arrived in Kai. ‘There are a few villages further east with similar casualties. My unit and I did what we could for them.’

‘Why have they burnt the storehouses?’

‘Because if they don’t have food to give to the army, the army can’t take it from them.’

He Tian didn’t reply. He wondered if she knew who he was—who his brother was. He had left his coat in Kai, with Guan Shan, in a cold cell, and knotted his travelling cloak into the saddle of his horse as the air grew warmer, the dark sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. There was nothing to distinguish him, really.

His silence prompted her to glance up at him from her inspection of the wound; the man’s face was almost clean now. He was pale, and young, barely thirty, his hair cut short in the eastern style. His lips were trembling, and his skin was cold.

‘He’s going into shock,’ He Tian said, almost absently. The wound was not one to be survived.

‘Grab me one of the blankets. Quickly.’

He Tian passed her one from a stack on a low table behind him, piled beside barrels of clean water, dry cloths, and basic medical equipment. The blanket was scratchy and felt like packed straw. He thought of his cloak, slung over the back of his horse.

Villages like this rarely had a physician; the people lived easy lives, without excess. If sickness spread, Kai would send physicians from the city, or a villager would make the journey to the capital. In moments like this, it would not matter if there were physicians or not.

He Tian watched as the guard tucked the blanket around the man’s legs, and helped wrap another around his upper torso and shoulders.

The wood stuck out of him like the shaft of a sword. Once pulled out, his organs, if they were not pierced and damaged enough already, would collapse inwards, and death would be painful, and not instant.

‘Leave us,’ said He Tian.

The guard looked at him, and then to the patient. ‘I should—’

‘I said leave.’

She lingered, only for a moment, eyes brimming with uncertainty and faint mistrust.

When she was gone, the corner of the tent was quiet. He could hear the other villagers coughing quietly near the tent opening, and the man’s wheezing breath. When He Tian looked at him, dark eyes stared back.

‘You are not going to survive this,’ He Tian said.

The eyes did not waver. They said that they already knew.

He Tian nodded. ‘Do you have family?’

A blink.

‘I will ensure you are given a proper burial. They will know you died well.’

He Tian pulled the small blade from the holster on his thigh, little more than a paring knife. If the man were a comrade in battle, He Tian would have used a sword, but this was not the time for ceremony and war-like gesture. This man—these people—were modest. They were self-conscious, and quiet, and He Tian thought about them setting fire to their storehouses. It sat unpleasantly in him.

He kept his face still as he pressed the blade against the man’s chest. Beneath He Tian’s hand, his heart was running fast, and sweat was sheening across his face.

‘Would you like me to do this?’ He Tian said.

He watched the man’s tongue dart out to wet his lips. His voice was a dry, grating rasp, like the shifting of an ashen log in burning embers.

He said, ‘Yes.’

 

* * *

 

It was incidental that the man’s brother should see He Tian pull a bloodied knife from his chest. That he should know, somehow, who He Tian was, brother of a jingoist, and assume the worst. It was incidental that He Tian should be slipping the knife from the light pressure of the man’s heart, and should not be prepared for his brother running at him with a sickle. The blade was curved and wicked-sharp, and He Tian felt the brief, swinging sting of it grazing his neck as he backed away.

The sounds the man was making were barely human, and He Tian held up the bloodied knife, stance defensive and ready for another attack, when Bai Yang rushed in with another guard.

‘ _Get off me!_ ’ the man screamed, Bai Yang’s hand locking his arms behind him, shoulders yanked back. ‘ _He killed my brother!_ ’ The sickle fell to the ground with a clatter, and He Tian felt a thin trace of wetness on his neck. He rubbed the blood between his fingers. Another inch, and that might have been it.

‘No,’ He Tian said slowly, letting his hand fall to his side, staring at the man evenly. He was heaving, a wild thing raring to break free, a bull digging its heels in. ‘Whoever set the fire in the storehouse, and allowed a splinter of wood to impale him, killed your brother. We were sent here to provide aid and order. To provide relief.’

The man spat in his face.

Bai Yang froze, and the second guard closed his eyes for a brief moment.

He Tian, calmly, backhanded him.

The silence that fell was stinging, and sharp, and felt ill-placed when death had only just slipped its shadowed way past. He Tian stepped forward, until the man was close enough to look up. There was blood on his lip from the hit, and He Tian felt the sting of smacked flesh across his knuckles. The proximity did not stop the man’s lip from curling; it prompted no fear in his eyes.

‘I know you. I know what your brother is like.’

‘Really,’ said He Tian. He did not think it was his place to talk to a grieving man. ‘I suppose you’ll enjoy telling me.’

‘Bloodthirsty, warmongering, whoreson of a—’

Bai Yang had a hand in his hair, yanking his backwards. ‘Show some fucking respect,’ he hissed.

‘It’s all right,’ said He Tian, wiping the spit from his cheek. ‘I would be the same. Or . . . No. I suppose I _wouldn’t_ feel anything at the death of a bloodthirsty, warmongering, whoreson of a brother.’

‘Imperial Guard—’

He Tian wiped his knife in a cloth, but he could not get the blood and soot from beneath his nails. Here barely an hour, and already He Tian was ready to leave. To return to Kai. His mind was straying too much. Guan Shan.

Was this why He Di told him never to let someone in his bed?

He bit the inside of his cheek. He hadn’t even bedded him, and already it was like this.

‘Keep a hold of this one,’ said He Tian. ‘I will survey the rest of the village and speak with some of the witnesses.’ He muttered, under his breath, ‘With any luck we will be out of this place by nightfall.’

He ignored the man’s curses as he left. He knew he had done, probably, what the man would not have been able to, and he did not blame him for it.

They did not leave at nightfall. They stayed another two days, tending to those with lungs struggling from the smoke, or whose limbs had broken in the collapse of some of the storehouses. He Tian went with a dispatch of guards to some of the nearby villagers where rioting had also sprung, and saw nothing different to the first.

What he saw—rather, what he _didn’t_ see—concerned him.

People rioted against institutions, and against authority. Guard stations in the East Fields were few and could be stretched between thousands of kilometres; there was, virtually, no authority to protest against. The Empress had always dealt fairly and justly with crop levies, and negotiated with East Field representatives at court meetings. Stranger still, was that rebel actions necessitated the aid of those whom they had rebelled against, and they welcomed that aid—He Tian’s aid—and were grateful for it.

 _Riots,_ He Tian wondered. _Riots or intentional damage to the villagers’ crop yields?_

And for what reason? The grain silos still stood untouched, the fields were undamaged, and the harvest would be abundant. Kai would not expect a high yield to be sent to the city in the coming months; after this, they would limit the export of crops marginally, but the damage was small, and almost negligible. It didn’t make sense.

He remembered the female guard’s words: _If they don’t have food to give to the army, the army can’t take it from them._ If they cared for such a thing, they would have destroyed everything. Instead, there were a few bodies, and the charred shells of some of the storehouses. Others had barely been touched.

When they left, He Tian’s skin was soot-covered, and he couldn’t wash the taste of carbon from his mouth. The villagers from the first settlement packed them bags with fresh fruit and vegetables that would only just last the return three-day journey to Kai, and He Tian did not see the man who had gifted him the cut on his neck again.

They rode hard, their horses well-rested and well-fed, their own bodies less so, and longing for the sure, spartan comforts of the barracks.

‘War would have been easier,’ one of the guards joked, when they set up camp on the second night. A fire glowed brightly under a cool night sky.

He Tian watched them over the rim of his water cup, sitting, back pressed against a tree. He bit into the under-ripe flesh of a peach, tart and crisp. ‘Then you have never been in war,’ he said.

The guard, because they were all tired, and because He Tian sat with them around a fire, said, ‘And you’ve been in war, have you?’

The silence was filled only with the crackle of fire, and the slow workings of a throat swallowing water. Bai Yang shifted, and glanced at He Tian.

He Tian stared at the guard across the fire, whose lazy grin was fading. ‘When I was ten, my father sent me south with a band of mercenaries, to Maido. Civil war broke out daily between rebels and nationals. It is still war-ravaged and trade-locked now. There was enough war.’

Maido. The name ran like a current through the guards. The Empress used to send soldiers to the country years ago, when there was still a chance of their return; when the Maidan government could still afford to pay Kaehai for their troops. Trade exchange had ceased long before the troops stopped being sent, and it was not uncommon for Maidan families to slip their way into Kai—or even to the East Fields—to find a better life.

‘What did you do with them?’ asked one of the female guards. Her chin was cupped in her palm, and curiosity was a blaze in her flame-flickering eyes.

‘With whom?’

‘The mercenaries?’

He Tian said, smiling, ‘What do you think?’

‘They fucked you?’

There was a bark of sharp, startled laughter, and a hand slapped across a mouth. The silence, this time, took on a different edge.

He Tian hadn’t stopped smiling. ‘They wish,’ he said. ‘A face like mine? I would have been worth a fortune.’ He settled back against the tree, and lifted his eyes up. The boughs were a dark, webbed mass above him. He wondered what lurked in them. ‘No, they didn’t fuck me. I was to help take out some of the militant rebels.’

‘But . . . You were ten.’

He Tian didn’t look at the man who had spoken. ‘I’m not sure that was relevant,’ he said. Funny, he thought, that fucking would have been acceptable, understandable, but killing was too far. ‘There were Maidan children younger than me running around with machetes. At the very least, I had a band of highly skilled, highly paid killers to protect me on my father’s orders.’

‘So, that’s why you’re . . . like that.’

‘Like that?’ said Bai Yang, edged. ‘What’s that supposed to mean, Cheng Yilong?’

‘No offence meant, Second Guard. Imperial Guard.’ He Tian was too tired—too aware that tomorrow he would be home, and startled that he thought of Kai as something as solid as _home_ —to berate Yilong for his meekness. ‘You’re . . . different from the rest of us. We thought it was ‘cause of your brother. ‘Cause you’re a He. ‘Cause it was natural. But it’s ‘cause . . . you were raised like that.’

‘Raised like that?’

‘Hard, like. Take no prisoners.’

Someone snorted. ‘Except one.’

At this, He Tian looked over. Bai Yang was glaring at the guards; it was his responsibility to keep them in line; He Tian punished them for insubordination, but he would not be expected to face it.

‘No, please,’ He Tian said. ‘Don’t stop on my account.’

‘They’re referring,’ said Bai Yang, stiffly, ‘to the redhead servant you employ.’

‘What about him?’

‘You simply seem . . . _close_ with him.’

‘He lives in my quarters, yes. That tends to be so when one employs a personal servant.’

The clearing of a throat. Cheng Yilong again. ‘Yeah, but you don’t, er, _fuck_ them, do you?’

Bai Yang leaned backwards and smacked the guard on the back of the head.

‘I meant him!’ Yilong protested. ‘No one’s ever seen him with anyone! Thought he might have been, I dunno, _celibate_.’

‘Thought I couldn’t get it up?’ He Tian mused.

‘Well—’

‘Don’t answer that,’ Bai Yang snapped.

He Tian stopped his smile from widening. He realised, in the tiredness, how desperate his need was for a wash; he realised that Guan Shan would still be in the cell where he had left him, and he was enjoying himself. Sitting under the stars on a breezy spring night, around a fire with the men and women in his employ, after a week of travel and imperial-sent aid successfully administered. This felt like some small reward, or acknowledgment for having succeeded with something.

His brother—his _father_ —would never have given him anything. The Empress’ words were sharp and unyielding, and he had to infer from them what he could. Here, he felt warm, the prickly heat of something curling around him. He imagined Guan Shan here, amongst the men and women he worked with, smiling quietly, watching quietly, behind the rim of a tin cup, ready to throw out a comment when he had mulled it over enough, considered the impact of it.

He Tian would have enjoyed watching that: city and palace guards playing a cat and mouse game with the words of a Kai thief. What corners Guan Shan would drive them into. He Tian would have enjoyed, afterwards, Guan Shan rising and coming to sit beside him, the hard trunk at their backs, and saying anything, or nothing. He would look nice under the stars.

‘So . . . it’s not true, then?’ a woman asked.

He Tian sighed. ‘No, I’m not celibate. No, I’m not fucking him. Yes, my brother is . . . my brother. _Yes_ , I will wake you all every morning next week and get you to run drills before your duties for _asking all these questions_.’

Against the backdrop of groans, the same voice rang out: ‘I meant about the thief. The servant. It’s not true about where he came from?’

He Tian glanced at the woman. ‘You mean Kai?’

‘No, I—’ She shifted. ‘I meant the rumour about the fire. I recognised his hair. He’s the herbalist’s son, isn’t he? From the Bazaar?’

He Tian said, ‘What fire?’

‘It’s just a rumour, but . . . I heard there was a noble family that used to live in Kai. Filthy rich. Two parents and a kid with red hair.’

‘What. Fire.’

She ran a hand through short, cropped hair. ‘I just . . . someone said the nobleman went mad. Set his house on fire. Huge mansion on the hill leading up to the palace. I don’t know if it was for compensation money . . . Maybe they’d hit hard times and were losing their fortune, but . . . No one really knows what happened. Only the family vanished. And then there’s a new woman showing up in the Bazaar, smart, and monopolising every herbalist stall there is, and this thief turns up in the palace with you and he’s got red hair and . . . Fits nicely, doesn’t it?’

He Tian stared at her across the fire. His head felt empty.

‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ Bai Yang was saying. ‘Red hair is rare but not uncommon.’

The woman said, ‘It’s rare enough that you see the same person five times in Kai with red hair before you see another one. And I’ve never seen anyone who looked liked _that_ and wasn’t a noble.’

‘Went mad,’ said He Tian. People didn’t just set their houses on fire. Noblemen didn’t throw away fortunes with the strike of a match, and if they wanted to, they were strapped up and shipped away to an institute in Noroi or on the coast of the Far Isles. It never actually _happened._

‘Like I said,’ the woman was saying. ‘Rumour. Kai’s not exactly known for its truths. I’m . . . sure you know that, Imperial Guard.’

Truths. What, exactly, was the truth here? What exactly was one meant to trust in the face of this? Kai and its notorious thirst for untruths and careful lies. Pavilions in the palace gardens were, on the surface, no different to the dirtied corners of the whorehouses and gambling rings and the ichor dens. Language was the only thing that changed how that information, the tidbits of gossip, was relayed. Vernacular and colloquialism. And Guan Shan understood the language of both Kai street and tea pavilion. Had, apparently, lived both.

He Tian could feel pieces falling into place, except they were like petals, torn and scattered on the ground before him, impossible to reshape into the thing they once were: Guan Shan’s cream-coloured skin and red hair; the way he spoke; his quick, too-quick intelligence; an aristocrat’s education. _A noble’s son._

‘Guess that means you can fuck him _properly_ now, huh?’

 _‘Cheng Yilong_.’

‘What? Fucking a thief might be, y’know, _novel_ , but a noble . . .’

‘He’s still a guard,’ said a woman. He Tian realised she must have been talking about him. ‘There are still . . . status implications. Hierarchy.’

‘Nah. He’s the Imperial Guard. He’s a He. That’s more than any noble. He’d sit on the throne if the Empress and the Prince weren’t there.’

‘ _Watch your tongue._ ’

‘Not _sayin’_ anyone’s committing treason . . . Just sayin’ he could fuck anyone he wanted to and be a station above them. I mean, look at him. Practically on par with the Prince. Except . . . dunno if the Empress would have let him get a leg over her, the cold bitch.’

Laughter and ribald cheers exploded, and Bai Yang was on his feet, dragging Yilong up by the collar, guards near hysterical around them. It all happened on the periphery; it didn’t matter that He Tian was barely listening to it, or watching it. Barely understanding it as something to be understood and comprehended.

He was laughing to himself—at himself. Not because he realised, and saw it all now for what it all was. Not because everything that he had been confused by was coming to make sense. But because he had wanted this— _imagined_ the idea of Guan Shan being a noble, of being someone else, someone he might court—be _able to court_ without repercussions.

And still, now, that was not real. It was not within his grasp. Yilong didn’t see it, but He Tian expected someone like Bai Yang would understand: being born a noble did not change that Guan Shan had become a thief, or that his mother was a Bazaar vendor. It did not change that whatever fortune Guan Shan might, once, have had, he did not now.

It shouldn’t have mattered—it _didn’t_ matter. Except he could never be anything with Guan Shan without the title. His father would not sanction it; his _brother_ would not sanction it. The Empress would not sanction it. It would have to be illicit—a rudimentary, necessary affair that held no real meaning. No legitimacy. It was hilarious, and ridiculous—that he even wanted to have such a thing with Guan Shan, let alone consider it—and He Tian hated it every part of it.

‘He Tian?’

He Tian blinked. Bai Yang, riding next to him, had his dark brows furrowed. Behind him, beacons were blazing.

‘We’re here,’ Bai Yang said.

They were within the palace walls, passing through the gates. The courtyard was abuzz for such a late hour. There were sentries on duty greeting their return, and servants had appeared to take the horses to the stables. He Tian only distantly felt his feet hit the cobbles. He patted his horse absently on the flank before handing the reins to a stable boy.

He felt, suddenly, entirely out of sorts. The last few hours of the ride had slipped away from him him, soft sand drifting through his fingers. It was like waking from a too-long sleep, the sky already having darkened outside, daylight missed entirely.

‘The prison,’ said Bai Yang, withdrawing a book and a pewter flask from his saddle bag, before a girl led the horse away. ‘You had business there, before we left.’

‘The prison,’ said He Tian, flatly. Bai Yang spoke to him like he was supposed to understand.

‘Is it . . . still a pressing matter?’

‘Pressing . . .’ He Tian faltered.

_Guan Shan._

He did not see the long, searching look Bai Yang was giving him—he was already running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please give thanks by leaving a kudos/comment/like!**
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> Originally posted on [my Tumblr!](http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com)
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> My endless gratitude to [sub_textual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sub_textual/pseuds/sub_textual) for beta'ing my work~! x


	12. Intoxication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there will be some questions related to She Li and Guan Shan at the end of this, but they will be answered over the coming chapters.
> 
>  **Warning:** Story rating changed from Mature to Explicit. This chapter contains NSFW and forced alcohol consumption.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta [sub_textual](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sub_textual/pseuds/sub_textual) for all her help.
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> [Find me on Tumblr!](http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com)

‘Where is he?’

‘Imperial Guard?’

‘Guan—the boy. Man. He had—has red hair.’

‘He was released. Sir.’

He Tian stared into the cell, the emptiness of it. He was waiting for something to form out of the cool darkness of it, a shadowed thing that would become corporeal, copper hair and milk-white skin; hard, curious eyes. Pink lips curled in a scowl.

‘Released,’ he said. ‘By _whom_.’

‘By the Prince, sir.’

He Tian stared at the duty guard. The man struggled to maintain eye contact.

‘Why would Prince Jian Yi release the prisoner?’

‘No, I—I meant the Prince of She, sir. Prince She Li.’

‘She Li released my prisoner.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘On what grounds? On _whose authority_?’

The man opened his mouth.

‘No. Shut up. I don’t want to hear your voice.’ He narrowed his eyes, and looked down the darkening corridor of prison cells. They were uncharacteristically quiet. ‘Did he take him to the palace?’

He looked torn, and the words came slow and awkward and stilted, tripping over themselves. ‘I—I believe so, sir. I believe Prince Jian Yi was hosting some sort of . . . entertainment evening. An informal banquet. For the nobles. For Prince She Li.’

‘And She Li needed a prisoner for that.’

‘There was another, too. A girl. She was . . . very pretty, and—’

He Tian stared at him. He had allowed the release of two prisoners, only on the grounds that a prince had ordered it. A foreign prince. A She prince. Perhaps anyone who dressed well enough and spoke well enough could release prisoners. Perhaps high birth was the only prerequisite for giving orders in the Royal Prison. He Tian was stunned. What— _incompetence_ —

‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘you and I will discuss why orders are apparently difficult to follow when I am not here to hold your hand and help you take a fucking piss, understood?’

‘Imperial Guard,’ they murmured.

_‘Understood?’_

Boots clicked at the heel, back ramrod straight, fist across their chest. ‘Understood, _sir_!’

He Tian curled his lip as he looked at him, up and down, twice, watching him shake. He must have been five years older than He Tian, at least. He Tian shook his head.

‘Try not to fuck up and release _all_ my prisoners while I’m away.’

This time, he didn’t wait for an answer.

 

* * *

 

He Tian could hear the music from the hallway to the main throne room. It was She music: snake-skin drums, high-pitched reed flutes. It was a sound you could feel beneath your skin, nails dragging themselves softly over a scalp. It lingered, when you tried to close your eyes at night, and made you feel like you were breathing it in.

He Tian felt shivery with it when he entered the hall, dizzy with tiredness, aching from the ride and the tireless repairs in the East Fields, dirt still under his fingernails, smudged across his cheek, crusted blood on his neck. He was not appropriate for public appearances, or appropriate for representing himself as a He, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

The room was a flurry of milling nobles and rich merchants and servants carrying platters of food and drink along the length of the hall. The throne stood empty on its dais. They were not using the adjacent banquet hall for this; the fullness of the throne room, the empty throne, jarred inside of He Tian. In the centre of the room lay a stretch of wicker mats reserved for dancers and musicians.

The Empress was absent, which was not uncommon for evenings like this, but instead, Prince She Li had seated himself on a long, cushioned bench towards the end of the hall. Jian Yi sat at his side, back straight, head adorned with an amber circlet, dressed in green, and Zhengxi and his sister were there too.

He Tian made his way around the edge of the hall, nodding at the nobles, who in turn gave him low bows and curious looks, music grating on his skin—under it—and reached the side of the bench.

Jian Yi rose. ‘He Tian,’ he said, blinking, as he came into sight. ‘You look . . .’

‘Forgive my appearance, Prince Jian Yi. Prince and Princess Zhan of Noroi.’ His gaze slid to amber eyes. ‘She Li.’

‘He Tian.’

He Tian looked at Jian Yi. ‘The discontent in the East Fields has been settled. The skirmish was minor.’ He resisted looking at the Prince of She. ‘We will discuss this tomorrow, with the Empress.’

‘Of course,’ said Jian Yi, nodding rapidly. At his side, Zhengxi was getting to his feet.

‘You should bathe, He Tian,’ Zhengxi said. ‘Eat something. Rest. Jian Yi is well attended and the Empress is guarded. There is no need for you to exert yourself. We are all—very grateful for your services.’ He seemed to pause. It was a pause that He Tian knew well: the look of a man, a woman, who was trying to figure out how he simply _did_ things. How the Empress could ask something of him, anything, and it would be done. Was that not, he wanted to ask them, what he was supposed to do?

He Tian could feel the tug of tiredness, the heaviness behind his eyes, the sharp sting of a headache. His mouth tasted of fires and burnt-out buildings. He felt like he could soak for a day and not be clean enough. Guilt made all things infinitely more painful.

‘Forgive me,’ He Tian said again, hating that he had to stand like this, before them. Yilong, the night before, had been right: in terms of status, He Tian was almost level with the Princes. The difference lay only in title. ‘But I have been looking for someone who was . . . under my protection.’

Jian Yi tilted his head. ‘A guard?’

‘No, he—’

‘A noble?’

He Tian, briefly, closed his eyes.

‘Him?’ said She Li.

He Tian opened them. He turned, following where She Li’s gaze rested. A group of men, dressed in She military uniform, dark purple cloaks and grey shirts and trousers. In the firelight of the throne room, they seemed to draw away the light, and it fell only on the figure that stood between them.

No, not stood. He had fallen on one of the soldiers, and from here, He Tian could see the bright red stain of wine-flush on his cheeks. He Tian knew, beneath the clothing he wore, shirt too wide at the collar, the tails untucked from cream trousers, that the flush would be everywhere on his skin.

He Tian felt like he couldn’t breathe.

One of the guard’s hands was on his back, pulling him close, and inwards. Grinning, their fingers fell lower. A wine cup was pressed to Guan Shan’s lips, and he was drinking, deeply, helplessly.

‘The _prisoner_?’ said Princess Zixi, bewildered. Her fingertips were resting on She Li’s wrist.

He Tian was shaking his head. He could feel their gazes, shifting uncertainly between Guan Shan and himself. ‘He’s not—there was a mistake, he—he’s—’

She Li’s eyes were glittering. ‘He’s what, Imperial Guard?’

‘He was not to be _touched_.’

She Li said, ‘It is a customary practice in She. We make an example out of those who commit wrongdoings against their own people.’

‘By forcefully intoxicating them. By humiliating them. This is Kaehai, not She.’

‘By making them see what it is like when their actions are not in their own hands—when they are dealt with a fate that they have inflicted upon them by someone else. That’s what a crime is, isn’t it? A wrongdoing inflicted upon someone else?’

‘He wasn’t there for any _wrongdoing_ , he—’

‘You imprison people without evidence? Without a legitimate charge?’

People were looking at them now, at He Tian, raising his voice, fists curling at his sides. He felt the weight of his sword against his thigh. He was waiting for She Li to stand—not to sit there with that veiled, permanent politeness that She people wore; too cowardly to fight.

 _Not here_. _Not in front of him. Not in front of your Prince._

He could feel the pull of exhaustion, and felt like his brother was speaking in his ear. _Don’t you dare embarrass me in front of them, He Tian. Everything you do reflects on me, and this family. Don’t you dare._

He Tian said, words feeling like breathing out frozen air, ‘With your permission, Prince Jian Yi, I would like to withdraw him from this evening’s entertainment.’

Jian Yi was blinking at him, and Zhengxi stepped forward when a response was not forthcoming. ‘You have my permission, He Tian,’ Zhengxi said.

It didn’t count for anything—He Tian did not even need Jian Yi’s words—but it was enough. He inclined his head. Bowed to Jian Yi. He did not look at She Li.

His feet were taking him, already, to where the group of She soldiers gathered in their small circle, holding delicate ceramic cups, bright from the strength of Kaehaian rice wine, the music, the dancing. In uniform, they should not have been doing anything. Their eyes should have been on She Li. Their hands should have been resting impassively at their sword hilts.

They should not have been touching Guan Shan.

He didn’t see He Tian, let out only a small sound as He Tian pulled, as he fell against him, all limbs and lithe muscle, warm-skinned and flushed. He Tian could feel Guan Shan’s pulse bounding in his veins, his hand gripping too tightly around Guan Shan’s wrist. He was blinking up at He Tian, lashes wet.

‘We were enjoying him,’ said one of the men, in a She drawl.

He Tian glared. ‘You can enjoy being gutted on my sword and castrated with a paring knife in a moment.’

The drunkenness, perhaps, was what caused their silence, too-slow blinking and slower mouths. Drink-addled minds that could think of nothing to say. He Tian, burning with fatigue, and anger, knew he would not be slow to draw his sword. He knew, too, that he was very willing to draw it even now, his brother’s spectred, warning words in his ear be damned.

He pulled Guan Shan from the throne room, pushing past nobles and serving boys offering platters of dark, seeded breads from Far, and finger-sized pieces of meats drenched in soy and sticky black honey from Maido.

The music followed them, inescapable, as they rounded corners and pushed their way through narrow, arched hallways, flew down one of the rear staircases—

‘I left—your coat—’

‘Damn my coat.’

—and found themselves stumbling outside, gasping in the sudden silence of the mild evening air, stars bright and glittering against an expanse of onyx-black night, spilled diamonds on a merchant’s black cloth.

Guan Shan was trembling as He Tian leaned against the wall, door shutting behind them, an entrance that the soldiers and the servants used to go from the palace to their quarters or barracks. Guan Shan’s forehead was pressed to He Tian’s shoulder, He Tian’s fingers still tight around his wrist.

He was so warm. He had come with him too willingly. Would he have let anyone pull him from the hall, like this? Stumbled to anyone’s rooms so long as they didn’t let him go? He Tian had to pretend—had to tell himself, that it was because of him. That if he had been anyone else, this would have been different.

He felt the awful realisation of being grateful for this—for Guan Shan to be pressing close, so easily. For being able to put arms around him, and have Guan Shan fall into his poorly offered  embrace. Sober, he might have struggled, pushed him off, swore at him. (Would he?)

He Tian didn’t know how long they stood there. The throne room must have been full; the servants would be busy all night. The men and women in He Tian’s company would have fallen to their beds hours ago, when they had first returned. No one, here, would disturb them.

The night was warm and silent, and the lightest touches of a breeze made He Tian realise that he was still awake, that this was real. That he could feel Guan Shan’s cheek against his chest, feel his heart thudding through to his own, answering.

Eventually, Guan Shan shifted. He Tian wanted to tighten his hold, keep him there, keep the illusion as long as he could. He let his arms drop, and Guan Shan stepped away.

‘I’m not—that drunk,’ Guan Shan muttered, quietly, rubbing a hand across his face. It was flushed, still, and He Tian felt like he was looking at a version of him he shouldn’t have had access to yet.

 _Versions and truths,_ He Tian thought, unbidden.

He realised he was not looking at Guan Shan and seeing something new. Nothing had changed. Neither of them were different than who they had been a week ago. Nothing had shifted. Except it had. Because He Tian had left, and not come back, and Guan Shan was struggling to meet his eyes, and nothing else, right then, mattered but this.

‘Come,’ He Tian said, stepping away from the wall. ‘We should go to our rooms.’

Guan Shan followed, silently, and He Tian tried not to look over his shoulder every time to check that he was still there. He wanted to hold his hand.

 

* * *

 

‘This is your room,’ said Guan Shan. He was blinking about him, as if the walk to the guards’ quarters hadn’t happened, and he was unsure how he had come to stand in He Tian’s bedroom.

‘Is it?’ said He Tian.

Guan Shan was staring at the bed, and He Tian wondered what he was seeing.

Guan Shan tried for words, slightly slurred, stuttering, ‘I asked—there was a man in the prison—I didn’t understand it until today—when I realised who _he_ was but—’

‘We don’t have to do that now. We don’t have to do that . . . for a while.’

‘Someone’s—the Prince is—’

‘The Prince is still alive,’ said He Tian. He realised, with a jarring uncertainty, that a servant had been in the rooms since his arrival; there was a pot of tea, still warm, on the dresser, and He Tian poured Guan Shan a cupful. It smelled light, and earthy, and of peppermint. He dabbed his finger into it and pressed it onto his tongue, then passed the cup to Guan Shan.

‘Drink,’ He Tian said, waiting until Guan Shan had it at his lips. He Tian turned again, pulling sleeping clothing from the chest of drawers. ‘If Jian Yi dies tomorrow it won’t be your fault,’ he continued. _It will be mine._ ‘For now, you should rest.’

He Tian knew, as the words settled in the room, that he would not have said them two months ago. It was not that Jian Yi did not matter—that he would not die for the Prince, if he needed to. But he was coming to understand that there were things he could do, and problems he could fix—and things, sometimes, he could not.

‘This is your bed,’ said Guan Shan.

‘Is it,’ said He Tian, shutting the drawers, fingers wrapped around cotton bed clothes. He turned—and stopped.

The cup was empty on the bedside table, and Guan Shan was lying on his bed, in the middle, staring at the canopy. His arms and legs were straight, like he had been placed there, a doll.

He Tian felt the silence fall again as he looked at him. When the guardsmen from the barracks wandered into the streets of Kai in the evenings, their laughter was usually loud and ribald, lifting up to He Tian’s window, heady with dry wines and rich liquors from Far that burnt down the throat. Guan Shan did not laugh. There was no quirk of a smile on his lips. He lay there, silent, and staring, and his quietness filled the room. He Tian felt it filling himself, and it was settling in his bones like a slow poison. He had the strange sensation of wanting to sit there—wanting to let it.

‘I waited for you—I waited for you to come and you didn’t.’ Guan Shan lifted his eyes, over to He Tian. The pupils, the irises, were swimming. Guan Shan said, carefully, jaw working around the words like it wasn’t working, ‘ _Why_? Why didn’t you come? I wanted—wanted you to come back for me and…’

He Tian felt the clothing in his hands fall to the floor. ‘The _stars_ , Guan Shan—’

‘You didn’t have to. I’m a thief, I know, but I—I thought—the whole time, I thought—I waited for you and—’

‘Guan Shan, stop. Please. Please stop.’ He Tian dropped his head in his hands. Neither of them said a word. It was unbearable, and He Tian couldn’t break it. There was nothing to do. Nothing he could say that, somehow, might excuse this.

‘I’m not—myself.’ It was a quiet, uncertain offering. He Tian could hear the confusion in Guan Shan’s voice. The uncertainty that lay there. And, too, the fear. He Tian wasn’t sure what he would do if Guan Shan’s fear was because of him, and he knew that, in this mood, if he asked, Guan Shan would answer truthfully. He didn’t ask.

‘I know,’ he said instead. ‘I see that.’

‘Am I being strange?’

‘You’re being—not yourself.’

‘You can leave me. Let me go back to my room.’

He Tian ignored him. ‘You should rest,’ he said again, turning to face the door for no reason. ‘I should—stay with you. Until you sleep.’

‘In case I choke in the night?’

He Tian pressed a hand against his chest, and rubbed at the material of his shirt, over his heart. It felt tight. ‘Yes. In case of that.’

‘Are you going to look at me?’

He Tian glanced over his shoulder. ‘I am looking at you.’

Guan Shan’s eyes were burning in the darkness. They were lucid in a terrible way—clearer than He Tian had ever seen them. It felt like being torn open to be seen like that; it felt like Guan Shan was seeing the underside of him.

Guan Shan said, ‘That’s not looking.’

‘What’s looking then?’

‘ _Face me_.’

He Tian stilled, body tensing. The challenge in Guan Shan’s eyes had somehow made its way into his voice, onto his tongue, seeping through the whole of him. It was like seeing some part Guan Shan had held inside himself and could now only dare to unlock. He Tian didn’t know what to do in the face of it. He felt like he would do much—too much—for this version of him.

He Tian felt something shift in him, because he knew the truth of it. He would have done much for any version of him.

Two months— _more_ than two months—since He Tian had caught him slipping his hand into the Far man’s pocket at the Bazaar. And already he felt… this. He had become ridiculous, in every sense of the word.

He pulled his boots off, his cloak following, and soon he sat and faced Guan Shan in trousers and shirt, and he realised that they wore the same thing. Only, Guan Shan’s shirt was loose and undone at the neck, and it was trailing at the hem, untucked from his waistband. He was clean, but the clothes were not his own, and He Tian wanted to take them off him.

Guan Shan looked at him, and lifted a hand. Fingers trailed against He Tian’s neck, and he jerked back before he could help it.

It had been soft, and his skin felt awakened, and Guan Shan’s hand was hanging there between them.

‘You have a cut,’ Guan Shan said. He was not, as he had been before, apologetic and conscious of his decisions. There was no begging for forgiveness. There was nothing of the boy Guan Shan had been, standing in his kitchen, dropping He Tian’s glass-cut hand with a shock like burning.

‘I do.’

‘You haven’t cleaned it.’

‘I haven’t had time.’

Guan Shan looked at him. ‘The person who did it. What happened to them?’

‘They were a farmer in the East Fields.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘What are you asking, Guan Shan?’

‘Did you kill them?’

He Tian gave him a long look. ‘Do you want me to say yes?’ _Will that make this easier?_

Guan Shan stared back, drunk and stubborn. He had a clever mouth, and it was pressed into something that almost looked like a pout, smarting. ‘I want you to tell me the truth.’

‘Then, no. I didn’t kill him.’

‘Even though he tried to kill you?’

‘He lost his family. He attacked in anger. There was nothing—I could not kill a man like that.’

‘Perhaps you should. Perhaps he fought you knowing it would be easy for you; that you would make it easy for him. Now he has to live alone, and in suffering.’

He Tian closed his eyes. ‘That’s not . . . my decision, Guan Shan. I’m not the stars, or the heavens.’

‘Aren’t you?’

He Tian’s mouth quirked, dry. ‘What’s in a name?’ he said. ‘You put too much faith in me.’ Unconsciously, he reached a hand out, and brushed the locks of red hair from Guan Shan’s forehead, tucking it behind an ear. It was growing long—for him.

It was not the act itself that made He Tian still, or the darkening of Guan Shan’s eyes. Instead, he heard Guan Shan’s words swelling inside him. _Why didn’t you come?_

It was becoming apparent to him, perhaps, that Guan Shan might not put any faith in him at all. He Tian wouldn’t blame him. He had hit him too easily, then. He had allowed him to go to the prisons too easily. _He’ll be fine_ , he had thought, outrageously.

He was outraged at himself now.

‘The guards,’ said He Tian. ‘Did they—’ He swallowed.

‘Did they what?’ 

‘Did they touch you.’

‘Does it even matter if—’

‘Don’t. Don’t do that. You know it matters.’

Guan Shan blinked at him. It was almost lazy. ‘What will you do?’ he said, curling over onto his side, hand propped beneath his cheek in a loose clasp. If he shut his eyes, he might look like he was sleeping. ‘The same as you did to the last one?’

He Tian ground his teeth together. He knew what he had done to the last one. He didn’t think, for a moment, that Guan Shan would know. He said only, ‘I don’t employ people like that.’

‘Yes, you do. You employ them. You just punish them afterwards as a way to make up for your own lack of forethought.’

Guan Shan talked like a noble, even drunk. He Tian marvelled at himself, listening to Guan Shan. How had he missed this? How had he not known?

‘I can’t know what everyone is like, Guan Shan. I’m not that intuitive. I told you. Too much faith.’

‘You think you understand people, but you really have . . . _no_ idea, do you?’

 _You overstep yourself,_ He Tian thought, but he said nothing. He felt Guan Shan’s words like they were thoughts that had been sitting in Guan Shan for some time, begging for release. Now, perhaps, might be the only chance he would get to say them without He Tian’s reprimand, a dam with its barriers broken.

‘If I trusted no one, the Empress would not have an Imperial Guard.’

‘You do trust no one. You _should_ trust know one.’

‘I—’ He Tian looked at him, and the air felt thick between them. He said, ‘I trust you.’

‘You don’t.’

‘Don’t I? Tell me why you think that.’

‘Because you have no reason to. You arrested me. I’m a criminal. You uphold the law of the Empress. You don’t know me. We could not be—more different.’

 _I think I know you,_ he wanted to say, but instead, ‘I don’t think we’re that different.’

He said it, testing, and Guan Shan could not have been so drunk anymore, because he looked away. He Tian wondered if this was confirmation, and what he would do if it was. Would it change anything if it became real? The ride back from the East Fields had cemented the idea in his head already. He had already accepted it as truth. He didn’t think it mattered if he was given anything that was more real from Guan Shan, unknowingly or not.

Guan Shan said, ‘You don’t know anything.’

He Tian let out an exasperated sound. ‘Stars and heavens, Guan Shan,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I do.’

Guan Shan rolled over, facing away, and He Tian could see the dim reflection of him in the window. It was still dark out, but the air had the hesitancy of waiting for a fast-coming dawn. He should have let Guan Shan sleep, but he couldn’t. If he slept, He Tian could not hear his voice. If he slept, he would not be able to see his eyes. And now Guan Shan had grown tired and turned away.

He Tian put a hand on his shoulder.

It was like he hadn’t touched him. Guan Shan didn’t react to it at all. What had to happen for someone not to care about fingers curling over their shoulder?

‘They didn’t,’ Guan Shan said. It was so quiet, He Tian barely heard it, and his hand fell away. ‘They said they would, sometimes. But they didn’t. They’re all terrified of you, you know.’

‘Should I apologise for that?’

Guan Shan shook his head into the pillow. He Tian wanted to see him, but he was struck with the realisation that perhaps Guan Shan did not want him to. That, perhaps, because he wanted something did not mean anyone else did, either.

‘I’m glad,’ said Guan Shan. ‘I’m glad that was what stopped them. If that’s all it was. I didn’t want to.’

‘Has it happened before? Before you were here.’

‘No,’ said Guan Shan. ‘Yes. Not—entirely. My… who I worked for. He would ask me sometimes, but it was never—the whole thing.’ The trembling tone in his voice, suddenly, vanished: ‘He didn’t _fuck_ me, is what I mean.’

‘And the guard that I… dealt with.’

‘He didn’t want to catch anything, so he didn’t—’

‘It wasn’t the whole thing,’ said He Tian, finishing for him. He could hear the softness of his voice, the strange, tentative timbre of it. Like if he said it too loud, it might shock Guan Shan into realising something he hadn’t known before about him. ‘So, have you ever—’

‘Why are you asking me about this?’ Guan Shan said suddenly. His voice was clear, like he was looking at He Tian and saying this to him, not turned away and staring at a wall—at a windowed reflection.

‘Because it concerns me.’

‘That I might be damaged goods?’

‘That someone could have hurt you while you were supposed to be under my protection.’

‘There’s nothing you could have done. At any point. You weren’t here.’

‘I’m here now. Does that count for nothing?’

‘Do you want it to count for something?’

‘Guan Shan—’

‘I thought not.’

‘I hadn’t given you an answer. Don’t assume.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m a thief, remember. A Kai criminal who isn’t good enough to be fucked and who can barely do his job well enough before getting arrested by the fucking _Panther_ and who—’

‘ _Don’t assume_.’

‘You can’t assume something that is true.’

‘That’s how you see yourself, perhaps. That’s how you think other people see you. Why would you think I would see that?’

‘Because—because you _left_ , all right?’ Guan Shan, suddenly, was sitting up, facing him, expression pulled into one of torment and anguish, his lip swelling between the bite of his teeth. There was hardly any space between them. ‘You left and you didn’t come back and I had to realise that you were just like the rest and—’

‘I couldn’t help it—’

‘I _know that._ I know you couldn’t. But _I_ didn’t. I didn’t know that while I sat in that cell. I didn’t know that when Si—when _Prince fucking She Li_ came. I didn’t know that while he shoved wine down my throat and expected me to _entertain_. I didn’t know. I didn’t know, for a moment, if you were anything different than anyone else.’

‘And it scared you.’

‘It terrified me. If you weren’t different, then who was? Was anyone? Was I—alone?’

 _He wouldn’t say this normally,_ He Tian thought. _He wouldn’t. I left him too long._

‘You’re not alone,’ He Tian told him.

‘And that’s terrifying, too.’

‘That you have someone?’

‘That the only person I seem to have is you.’

He Tian paused, weighing his words. ‘There are worse friends to have.’

Guan Shan stared at him. ‘Is that what we are?’

‘You know what we are.’

‘Do I?’

He Tian didn’t have a chance to respond. There would be no more words, because Guan Shan’s mouth was pressing against his.

He had an arm around He Tian’s back, pulling him in close, the strength startling. The heat, soft lips, a pressing tongue, startling. Even sitting, He Tian felt like he was staggering. Guan Shan tasted of peppermint.

He felt Guan Shan’s hand against his head, in his hair, and suddenly the tight knot of fabric keeping it up was coming undone, dark hair spilling down his back, across his shoulder, over Guan Shan’s fingers.

The pull on it felt like coming up for air.

They had barely touched, before He Tian was pushing him away, the force a struggle. His hands shook on Guan Shan’s shoulders, and he made himself look at Guan Shan, skin flushing the way He Tian had wanted it—the way he had imagined it—dark, russet-coloured eyes wide. His lips were wet and darkening. He Tian could see the tiniest remnants of the bruise around his eye, and it struck him, blindsiding, that Guan Shan would bruise pretty under his mouth.

‘What,’ Guan Shan breathed. His chest was rising and falling fast. ‘I know you want this.’

He Tian said, without inflection, ‘I haven’t washed in three days.’

‘I—’ Guan Shan shook his head. ‘ _So_?’ He was blinking, misunderstanding.

He Tian felt something flicker imperceptibly through himself, a warm, hesitant wind, hardly touching him, leaving him stirred, just barely.

‘And you’re still drunk.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Would you want me to kiss you if I were drunk and you were sober?’

Guan Shan opened his mouth. His jaw shifted. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, eyes lowered.

He Tian ran a hand through his hair, through the long fringe that fell into his eyes when it was undone. ‘Stars,’ he muttered. He kept looking at Guan Shan’s lips. ‘You make things so—difficult for me.’

Stubbornly recalcitrant, ‘Am I supposed to _apologise_?’

‘No. Never.’

‘Good. I wasn’t going to.’

He Tian snorted. He pushed Guan Shan on the shoulder, lightly enough, but Guan Shan went with the touch anyway, head falling back onto the pillows. He looked . . . He Tian could not keep looking at him.

‘Here,’ he said, pushing himself away from the bed. He picked up the fallen clothes on the floor, a long bed shirt and fitted, skin-close cotton trousers. They would be too long on Guan Shan. The sleeves would have to be rolled up. He had sleepwear, surely, in his own room, but He Tian did not want to put the idea in his head that he should go there.

‘What will you sleep in?’ Guan Shan said.

‘I don’t wear anything at night.’

Guan Shan stared at him as he took the clothes with a slow-moving hand. ‘Where will you sleep?’ His voice had taken on a strange note.

He Tian glanced at the armchair in the corner of the room. It was comfortable enough.

‘This is ridiculous,’ said Guan Shan. He hit his hand down on the mattress, and it struck He Tian as remarkably, endearingly childish. ‘I have my own room, I should—’

‘No,’ said He Tian. ‘Not tonight, I—’ He ground his teeth together. ‘I left you, and I will not do it again. Not tonight.’

‘You had to.’

‘I think we’ve established that it doesn’t actually _matter_ whether I had to or not,’ said He Tian. The words came out harsher than he intended, but Guan Shan didn’t seem to mind. ‘I still did.’

Guan Shan’s gaze was lucid—lucid, perhaps, more than it should have been given how much He Tian knew he would have been made to drink. He Tian knew how things worked in She: servants used for entertainment; punishment inflicted through humiliation and degradation. He knew that they would have looked on Kaehai with the same distaste, where physical punishment took the place of anything mental. He Tian understood Kaehai, its hardness, its sometimes painful simplicities, in a way he never could with She—and he didn’t want to.

Guan Shan, looking at him with that same, unnerving transparency, said, ‘You could sleep with me. I wouldn’t mind.’

‘My clothes—’

‘Take them off. You know I wouldn’t mind. You can wash tomorrow, when the both of us are not so ready to pass out.’

He Tian stared at him. He shouldn’t _. He shouldn’t._

 _I can’t give you this forever,_ He Tian wanted to tell him, and didn’t know how to. He clung only to the hope that Guan Shan knew it; that he was too drunk, not sentimental enough, to think they they could ever have this longer than they were allowed.

‘You are going to curse me tomorrow,’ he said, because this was easier. ‘Violently.’

‘Most probably.’

He Tian took a step forward, and stopped. Guan Shan had sat up, and was sliding the buttons through the eyelets of his shirt. His hands were shaking. The fabric fell from his shoulders easily, and he dropped it to the floor. He looked at He Tian, in the silence, with a raised eyebrow.

‘Are we competing?’ said He Tian.

‘I was making things fair, but—’ His fingers were at the fastenings of his trousers, and he had to lift his hips up to pull them down, across his thighs, his knees, his toned calves. He had the wiry, lightly muscled body of a city thief, agile and capable of slipping through narrow streets and steadying himself on the loose cobbles of Kaian roofs. He Tian was looking at him and thinking nothing about him running the streets of Kai—not while he lay, without clothes, flushed everywhere, in his bed.

‘Are you going to just—’ His voice hitched. ‘— _stand there_.’

Guan Shan was half hard. Even drunk, he was embarrassed.

 _Stars_.

He Tian pulled his shirt off with too-still fingers, and his trousers followed. Even like this, he didn’t tremble. Even when this—Guan Shan—lay before him, and something burned painfully in his chest, exhaustion shaking him everywhere inside, he felt still as a tree, roots embedded in the ground, daring a storm to shake him.

‘You should wear this,’ He Tian said, passing him the clothes again, not looking at the way Guan Shan was looking at him. Not looking elsewhere. ‘One of us should . . . make the effort.’

‘I’m not particularly bothered about making an effort. Are you?’

He Tian stared at the ceiling. He said, ‘Just get in.’

There was the sound of shifting fabric, sheets untucked, a body sliding easily beneath them. When He Tian allowed himself to look, Guan Shan was covered to his collarbones. He patted the space beside him, lightly, almost cautiously. Was it possible for someone to become more drunk as they sobered? Was this nervousness settling, buzzing inside of him while he came to realise that He Tian was here, and real, that he had returned and not chosen to leave? Was this anger that He Tian had still left, anger that He Tian was someone he could not really have, brimming and being replaced by something else?

Was this, He Tian thought he was really asking himself, true?

The sheets on his skin were cold, and crisp. They felt wrong against his skin, layered in sweat and dirt and blood. They had not bothered to wash at the river on the ride back; their clothes would have still been dirty, and taken too long to dry. Even in the warmth of a settling spring, the water still flowed ice cold.

He was aware that he was sun-warmed and filthy, and Guan Shan, lily white, flushed and freckled, was so clean.

Guan Shan was looking at him, flat on his back, arms at his sides, chin tucked on his shoulder. His pupils were huge and dark, the red-brown irises swallowed whole.

The bed was large, and if they wanted, they would not have to touch. The space between them was marginal, and He Tian felt Guan Shan’s warmth beside him. He saw Guan Shan’s hand slip beneath the sheets, and felt it find his own.

‘I was looking for something else,’ Guan Shan said, finger locking with his, ‘but this will do.’

He Tian swallowed his laughter. ‘You are very drunk, aren’t you?’

‘Don’t you like me like this?’

‘I like you like—’ He broke off.

‘Like?’ The hand squeezed his own.

‘I like you like you.’ Scolding, scowling, swearing. Soft, sometimes. Too soft. Too easily bruised.

‘I am me.’

‘Are you?’

Guan Shan shook his head. ‘This is too complicated,’ he said. ‘You make it too complicated. You make it—difficult. You should stick to fighting and threats and cruelty. Stick to being the Imperial Guard.’

‘As opposed to . . .?’ Guan Shan didn’t reply. ‘Shouldn’t you stick to being a thief, then? Stop using your high language and dye your hair something common?’

‘Are you saying I’m pretending?’

He Tian stared at him. ‘Am I?’

‘Oh, _much_ too complicated,’ said Guan Shan. Suddenly, he was pulling the sheets down from them both, and his thighs were straddling He Tian. He ground down.

‘ _Fuck_ —Guan Shan—’ He Tian had a hand pressed tight across his eyes. He couldn’t look at Guan Shan, above him. They were going to regret this—so terribly.

‘I thought so. Liar.’

‘I wasn’t lying. I—’ His other hand had found its way to Guan Shan’s hip, fingers bruising into the soft skin. He had to stop them. He couldn’t allow himself to do this. He couldn’t allow himself to be one of the She soldiers, tugging Guan Shan back to their rooms, and knowing he was too doused in rice wine to say anything other than _yes_ and _please_ and _harder_.

His fingers were biting into Guan Shan’s hip. He couldn’t allow himself to accept this as yes even when nothing—no one, except himself—was saying no.

‘Half the guards in the barracks think I’m fucking you,’ he said, senselessly. They were pressing together and it was—He squeezed his eyes shut, pulled his hand from his face to bunch it in the sheets, tendons in his arm straining against his skin, blood in his veins running too fast— _I’m alive I’m alive this is being alive._

Guan Shan’s breath was hot on He Tian’s chest as he leaned over, trailing kisses that were only brushes of lips against his skin than anything more. ‘Don’t you want to prove them right for once?’

He Tian swallowed his words as Guan Shan leaned upwards, tongue on his neck, teeth, the cut, a sting—

‘Guan Shan, don’t—’

‘I don’t care—’

He Tian braced his thighs and pushed upwards, forcing Guan Shan onto his back, flipping them over. Guan Shan was too light; it had been too easy; the breath left him with a quiet rush of air that sounded like he had said, ‘ _Oh_.’

‘I want to,’ He Tian said, looking down. The ends of his hair, very slightly, were trailing against Guan Shan’s goosebumped skin. He wished, suddenly, that Guan Shan’s hair was longer. Now, it reached the tips of his high cheekbones, but He Tian wanted to lose his hands in it, pull it loose from the back of his head, feel it spilling across his fingers like copper sunlight.

He tried again, ‘I _want_ to, Guan Shan. I want to—I want to _ruin_ you—’

‘Fuck—’

‘—but not now.’

 _‘Please_ now.’

He Tian bowed his head down, catching Guan Shan’s lips between his own. He felt Guan Shan arching off the bed, desperate for friction, for closeness—how could He Tian bear to deny him this after what he had done?—and pushed his hands into Guan Shan’s searching ones, locking them into the mattress above his head.

He could kiss Guan Shan like this forever— _not forever; you don’t get this forever with him_ —feeling want thrum inside of him and curving upwards, searching, on the cusp of finding. He Tian could feel the ache of his arms, holding himself so carefully above Guan Shan; he could feel the smarting tremble of his thighs lifting slightly off the bed, feet digging into sheets, the three-day ride back to Kai having stolen something from him, making this edged with something stinging.

He had forgotten what it looked like—his hair loose and soft on someone else’s flesh, sable-black strands across Guan Shan’s sternum, across his nipples, his pale, pale skin. It seemed endless. He seemed endless. Could this, possibly, not end?

He felt a shudder, sudden and wrecking, tear through him, sight dipping black, and he could barely move himself away before he collapsed against the sheets.

 _‘Fuck_ ,’ he gasped.

‘He Tian?’

There were warm hands on his face, touching his brow and his jawline. Guan Shan’s eyes were doused in worry and shock above him.

‘I’m fine—I just—’ He, what? Had worn himself so thin that week, he could barely hold himself up?

‘ _You should rest_ ,’ Guan Shan said, flatly. ‘You’ll tell me a hundred times but you won’t take your own advice. Ridiculous.’

He Tian rubbed a hand across his face. His limbs, his muscles, felt like they were saying no—the tree, again, digging its roots in, refusing to move. _You have given us nothing,_ they were saying. _So we’ll give you nothing back._ He Tian wished, just this once, that he would have to give nothing to get everything.

Guan Shan fell down beside him with a quiet sigh. After a moment, he slung an arm over He Tian’s chest. After another, a leg followed, across He Tian’s thighs. He Tian could feel Guan Shan’s cock, hard and throbbing, against his hip.

‘I could suck you off?’ said Guan Shan, easily. ‘Apparently, I’m good with my mouth.’

He Tian groaned through laughter. Was this what Guan Shan would normally be like? This free, this careless. He felt himself answer it with his own sense of strange ease. He felt it like a wellspring inside of him, spilling, trying to catch the water with hands that were entirely unwilling. _Let it spill,_ he thought. Let it break free if it meant he had this.

‘No,’ He Tian said. ‘I—don’t believe in one-sided deals.’

Guan Shan shifted his hips, a hot, grinding drag against He Tian’s skin. ‘Who said it would be one-sided?’

He Tian pulled an arm around Guan Shan’s back, as if he could bring him closer against his skin, stilling him. The movement was all he felt he could manage right now.

‘Let’s just—sleep,’ he said. ‘We’ll see how willing you are for all of this tomorrow.’

‘You seem to think I’ll turn into someone else.’

The words made He Tian pause. ‘No,’ he said, carefully. ‘I just think you’ll—realise what it is I’m able to give you. What I’m not. What it is that you want. Who you are.’

‘I didn’t realise rice wine could change someone that much.’

He Tian’s lips quirked. ‘See, if you were sober, you’d be giving me serious answers, and I’d be the one trying to pull you out of it.’

‘Pull me?’

‘Yes,’ said He Tian. Tentatively, ‘You should smile more. You look good. Younger. Easier. Like there’s nothing . . . hounding you.’

‘I must be very _difficult_ normally.’

He Tian sighed, and offered nothing more. He could see that dawn was rising outside, lingering beneath the trail of the drawn curtains. Tomorrow, he would speak with the guard in the prison. He would speak with Guan Shan—properly—about what he had learned from the prisoners, if there had been anything at all. He would speak with the Empress and Jian Yi about the East Fields.

Almost, he didn’t want to sleep if he had to face it all. It didn’t seem worth it. In the morning, he would wake, and Guan Shan might be filled with angered regret, and he would be a thief again. No, not a thief. Not anymore. Just not a noble. And what was He Tian doing, now, promising him this? He could never, truly, give it to him.

For now, he felt the heaviness of Guan Shan pressed on him, and enjoyed his close warmth. He could feel the expansion of Guan Shan’s chest with every breath, the press of his ribs, his sharp ankle digging into He Tian’s calf where it was splayed across him. He Tian felt the remarkable framework of him, his foundations, and felt distinctly like he was feeling something more.

‘Guan Shan?’

His voice was a sleep-thick mumble. ‘ _You should rest_.’

He Tian bit his lip. He let his hand run through Guan Shan’s hair, felt him shiver, quietly, softly at the touch. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘For not being there when I said I would.’

The silence stretched long enough, and He Tian thought Guan Shan had fallen asleep. Perhaps he had never said the words aloud at all.

But then, softer, more present: ‘You’re here now. Just . . . give me warning next time. I hate people who break their promises.’

An arrow, sharp and piercing and unapologetic, had landed in his heart, and He Tian pressed his eyes shut tight as it quivered. He could hear his brother’s voice: _Don’t make promises you can’t keep, He Tian,_ and shut himself off from it. He Di was not here. He Di did not get to put a thumbprint on this. This was wholly his, created by himself, separate from anything He Di had ever been a part of; it was only his—but not forever his.

He ran his fingertips across the soft skin of Guan Shan’s waist, and felt Guan Shan tremble in answer.

‘I will,’ He Tian said. ‘I promise.’

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The forced intoxication is a phenomenon I borrowed from ancient Spartan society. The Spartans would force their Helots (the servile class, almost slaves) to drink until they were drunk. Their lack of control and stupidity was used as entertainment, but more as a lesson to younger Spartans as a warning about the effects of over-indulgence. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Please like/reblog if you enjoyed!**
> 
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> [Find me on Tumblr!](http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com)


	13. Orders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [sub_textual](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sub_textual/pseuds/sub_textual) for beta'ing my work~! <3 Thank you for your patience with the delayed update! University and life and insecurity and all that jazz~
> 
> Bi Ten (the serving girl) is renamed Bi Xiaowe, due to a naming inaccuracy on my part. And a warning: this chapter contains mentions of/references to rape (though it does not occur).

It was raining, and steam was rising harsh and stinging from the heat of it, coating Guan Shan’s throat like acid. He could taste it, the sharpness of it, the astringency of it, like bad wine. He could feel the heat of the raindrops like small burns on it skin as they fell, red and welting.

Scarring. They were leaving scars on him. Guan Shan stared.

The street was dark; people were shadowed and incorporeal, and when they passed him, they felt like ghosts. It was not like being in an underworld; Guan Shan thought this was existing. This was having people swarm around, unseeing—unseeing him. The thing that was misplaced was not them.

A flare, orange and bright in the sky. It was the rain, and it was burning.

Guan Shan could feel it on his skin; the steam wasn’t lifting from the cobbles, but from him. He was a charred skeleton, falling apart, smoking carbon and flame.

He looked up the street, at the awnings and the flitting apparitions that were murky in the fire rain, untouched by the thing that was touching him.

This is where Silver should have been. This was the moment where he stepped out, when Guan Shan’s back was stripped of flesh because his cloak had caught the flames and wrapped him in heat.

_Aren’t you coming for me? Aren’t you going to heal me?_

It went unanswered. Perhaps he hadn’t said it loud enough. Perhaps it had caught in a throat that was raw and torn open, vocal cords on show like harp strings, and his fingers were too burnt to play.

A flicker, ahead—he hadn’t moved, and couldn’t. What would happen if he did? Perhaps he would turn to ash, and slip through the gutters. Perhaps what was left of him would cling to the fur of rats and they would carry him through the city, a piece of himself in every alleyway; every pantry of some noble; every garden grove.

The flicker.

Silver, walking towards him. But he moved like a prince because he was one, and he looked at Guan Shan like a prince looked at the pauper, when the pauper was smoking and curled on wet cobbles, and fire rained from the heavens and touched only him. The rest—those inky, shadowy forms, were left to move in their slow, decided way through the streets, and they didn’t look at him.

They didn’t look at Guan Shan because he wasn’t real, and because Silver wasn’t real, they didn’t look at him either. One was Red, and the other was a prince, and the ghosts didn’t know which one was the truth.

 _You understand, Guan Shan,_ Silver said, bowing over him. It did not stop the rain falling hot and stinging. Silver was not a shield, and the drops fell neatly through his skin to burn Guan Shan. _You understand that the stars fall on those who sin. And the sin of the son is the sin of the father._

Guan Shan could feel cold stone on his cheek.

He had made stars fall.

* * *

 

‘Guan Shan. _Guan Shan._ ’

A sharp, sudden sting that was not fire and sounded like flesh.

‘ _Guan Shan_ , _wake up_.’

Guan Shan’s mouth was full of ash, and smoke curled from him with ragged breaths. Was that his mother screaming as the balustrades collapsed?

‘Guan Shan, _open your eyes_.’

Wide, slate-coloured eyes stared back at him when he did, like they had been burnt out and made of blackened wood and smoke-filled night skies, and Guan Shan wanted to scream.

‘Guan Shan, it’s me. It’s He Tian. You were dreaming. You’re well. You’re safe.’

 _Safe,_ he thought, dazed, and He Tian had a cool hand on his nape and was guiding his lips to a cup of water, and he had to swallow and—the ash washed away, down in the hollow base of him where he couldn’t taste it anymore; it chased out the burning heat of his skin as it ran through him cold and chilling, and Guan Shan could suddenly only feel the cold.

He could feel it rushing through him like water through a fjord; he could feel the stroke of He Tian’s thumb on the back of his neck, slow and even and grounding; and he could feel He Tian’s weight on him as He Tian’s thighs fell astride his hips.

Grey once told him he thrashed in his sleep, and he could see the low workings of a bruise on the curve of He Tian’s ribs, red skin darkening from the haphazard, nightmare-heavy throw of a fist.

Guan Shan made himself drink until the cup was empty, skin feeling sticky and slick with sweat, and He Tian reached over and set it on the side table. He rolled off Guan Shan and fell, bonelessly, with a shuddering exhalation, onto the space beside him in the bed.

Guan Shan was still.

His heart was beating faster than he knew it had been in his sleep, while he pieced flashes of truth and permanence into something he could grasp. The banquet. The Prince of She. Wine in his throat. The Royal Prison. He Tian’s coat.

He stared at the ceiling, and listened to He Tian breathe, while early morning light soaked into the room. He Tian’s room.

It was warm, dust swirls and gold rays and the sweet closing of spring making its way across Kai, fruit bursting into being from its blossom and hanging fully and heavy from the trees, ready for the picking. Ready for juice trailing sticky down chins and soaking the taste of the tongue, sugar sweet and saccharine. The smell of it was leaking through the open window, and Guan Shan realised the water had tasted like it, like he had been drinking it in, rivers and pipelines stained with a pink, dawning summer blush.

The nightmare was curling away from him, snatched away by the mid-morning flare of light and the water that was settling in his stomach. Nothing in the room was burning except the soft warmth of the sun’s rays; nothing smelled of smoke. He Tian was chewing mint leaves.

‘What do you dream of?’ He Tian said.

‘Fires.’

He Tian nodded, like he understood. Like Guan Shan had given him the context and was now filling in the gaps.

Guan Shan glanced at him. He was wearing nothing, and Guan Shan was trying to make a connection between the figure that cloaked himself in darkness and steel, and the stretch of skin and muscle that lay down next to him like a god.

There had been a library in Guan Shan’s father’s house, and in there, was a leather bound book with parchment falling through the straps. It was Maidan, filled with diagrams in a foreign scrawl and drawings of the gods the Maidans carved into stone, high and towering and as tall as five men, and beautiful in a way that, surely, couldn’t have existed.

Guan Shan felt like he was ten again, sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of a grated hearth, looking at something unreal and too far away to touch. Except he could see the rise and fall of He Tian’s chest, and He Tian’s waist was a fingerswidth from his touch.

Guan Shan said, ‘I’m in your bed.’

‘You are.’

Guan Shan said, ‘We’re not wearing any clothes.’

‘You were very adamant about that.’

Guan Shan stared at the ceiling. ‘I don’t remember.’

There was a long, heavy pause. ‘Do you want me to tell you?’

He swallowed. ‘Did you fuck me?’

He heard a short, sharp, choke of a laugh. He Tian was shaking his head, but it wasn’t a no. ‘Don’t you think,’ He Tian said carefully, ‘that you might have felt it?’

Almost unconsciously, Guan Shan shifted. There was no ache between his thighs, no bruising burn on his knees. All he felt was a fading nausea and the faint ringing in his ears from too much wine. Wine, poured down his throat and hands on his skin and laughter shivery and foreign in his ear. Silver. She Li. Prince She Li. A dichotomy, surely, and yet the same.

Guan Shan knew, with undoubted certainty, that the ground he thought he might have been standing on had crumbled beneath his feet a long time ago. It made his head spin.

He closed his eyes.

‘Don’t you think,’ said He Tian again, ‘that I would be someone better than that?’

‘I don’t know what to think right now.’

He should have covered himself, and pulled the sheets over his skin. No, he should have been getting out of He Tian’s bedroom—out of his _bed._ And yet the light was warm on the chilled planes of his skin, dotted with goosebumps, and there was nothing hurried about this. He didn’t want to be running.

‘You’re blushing,’ said He Tian. His voice sounded warm, and when Guan Shan opened his eyes, He Tian’s were on him, bright and exploratory. He was taking Guan Shan in with a pleased look, like he had bedded him and was enjoying the after moments of catharsis and release, bodies spent with one another, eyes left to feast. His look invited Guan Shan to do the same.

‘I’m embarrassed,’ Guan Shan muttered. ‘I’m fucking—this is _embarrassing._ ’

He Tian lifted himself up onto an elbow. He was close enough that his hair touched the skin of Guan Shan’s arm, and Guan Shan was flooded with memory, snatched glimpses that he couldn’t distinguish between reality and want: pulling the fabric in He Tian’s hair undone, hips astride his, tongue on his neck.

‘Because you’re naked?’ He Tian said. The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘I really don’t mind.’

‘Because I should _remember_.’

He Tian raised an eyebrow. His eyes were glinting like sparked flint. ‘I think you remember something.’

Guan Shan followed his gaze.

‘ _Shit_ ,’ he spat, pulling himself off the bed, walking himself to the window, the glass cold under his hands, against his forehead. Here, he could see the edge of the training barracks, a field for sword practice, and a cluster of trees that stretched into a forest at the back of the palace grounds, boughs heavy with green leaves. It would be easy to walk into it and get lost, and not find himself for a few days.

A bed of bracken and pine needles soft under his shoulderblades, newly bursted berries on his tongue, lip-staining, a cold river to wash himself in. He would sleep and stare up at a sky that offered stars that wouldn’t fall, and he would search for them beneath the branches that reached up and away from him, until he would reach up too.

He could feel He Tian at his back, warm air hesitating between their bodies, but He Tian didn’t come close enough to touch. He could have. He should have taken the opportunity. But Guan Shan wasn’t sure he wanted He Tian to just do something because they _could._ He wasn’t sure that just because something could happen that it was meant to, or that he wanted it to, or that he somehow had to take responsibility for the probable and the possible and the not-yet-being.

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ He Tian said. The outline of him was reflected in the window pane. He was like something out of a poem, a phantom come to visit and to haunt. ‘Last night. None of this—was your fault.’

‘You think I don’t fucking _know_ that?’

He knew that this was Silver— _She Li._ He knew that this was the She guards. He knew that this was He Tian for leaving him.

He Tian was quiet. ‘You have a tendency for self-blame. To take on more than you can. Let someone else carry it.’

Guan Shan turned, scowling. ‘And what would _you_ know about my _tendency_ for _self-blame._ ’

He Tian just looked at him. It was a look that said Guan Shan had woken thrashing and tasting burnt wood on his tongue. It was a look, when he glanced behind him, to the window, that said the reflection showed the mottled burns on Guan Shan’s back well enough. But a reflection was not the real thing, and He Tian could look at them all he wanted and not know what they were as a reality—as an unalterable fact of being.

He didn’t _know_ , and he was looking at Guan Shan like he did, and it was unbearable. Guan Shan turned away.

‘Guan Shan—’

‘Whatever you’re going to say, don’t.’

He heard He Tian swallow. He heard him take a step. His knee touched the back of Guan Shan’s thigh.

‘Last night—’

‘I don’t remember last night. So don’t.’

He could feel He Tian’s breath on his cheek, the smile, torturous, in his voice. ‘You don’t remember or you don’t want to?’

Guan Shan squared his jaw. He could feel how flushed his skin was; he could feel the warmth of the light, coating his limbs like honey or molten amber sliding across his skin. He had thought He Tian was cold. But the thought of He Tian touching him now made him flare with the promise of heat he knew his skin would bring.

‘Whatever I said last night—whatever I did—I wasn’t—’

‘You weren’t?’

He Tian’s lips were so close to Guan Shan’s throat, and there was no barrier between them but space, and hands hanging limply at their sides. Guan Shan wanted to arch his head back, and fill it. He Tian’s breath smelled of mint leaves and his skin of earth and sweat from the ride he had yet to wash from. It was not the smell of cold stone and sharp swords and bare walls Guan Shan thought it would have been.

‘I wasn’t myself,’ Guan Shan made himself say.

‘How do you know that?’ He Tian said. He sounded amused. He sounded like he remembered everything from the previous night and was taking great pleasure in Guan Shan having forgotten.

‘Know what?’

‘How do you know you weren’t your truest self? The drunk man is the honest one, isn’t he? And you were _very honest._ ’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Oh, but we didn’t quite _get_ that far, did we?’ He Tian said breezily. ‘As much as you might have wanted to.’

Guan Shan could feel his anger flaring, the warmth of the room charged, and he felt like the wildfires in Maido that burned hot and long during the whole of the dust-dry summers, tearing through the scorched landscape. He could feel He Tian waiting for him. For a reaction, some sudden impulse: poisoned words or the lashing of an open palm or closed fist. He Tian’s eyes in the glass were burning, like he didn’t know how to put the flames in Guan Shan out—if he wanted to.

There was a kind of power in watching a fire burn and ravage.

‘Are you saying it didn’t happen?’

Guan Shan stared ahead. He could hear the sound of ringing steel in the barracks, the loud clang of swords meeting in a parry, light, careful footsteps bringing up dust. A cheer. Horses pounding the turf beneath their hooves as spurs dug in tightly. The palace beyond the sun-warmth of He Tian’s bedroom seemed alive and moving in every way the room did not. There was a still, monolithic quality to the room that felt pressed on them, ineluctable.

‘I can’t deny facts, He Tian,’ he said eventually.

‘You misunderstand me. Are you saying you want to _pretend_ it didn’t happen?’

‘What fucking good would that do?’ Guan Shan snapped. ‘I don’t like liars.’

He knew that wasn’t why he said it. He could feel He Tian too permanently. Waking in He Tian’s bed, with He Tian beside him, had not felt startling. And the truth of it lingered.

The heavy, sudden realisation that He Tian had not left the room when he awoke. That he had not shaken Guan Shan from sleep and forced him from his rooms. That, for a few hours, they might have lain there together and shared their warmth and the sleep-heavy pleasure of skin brushing against skin, pressing close. That He Tian had lain in his own bed, as he might have done any other night—while Guan Shan slept behind him, tangled quietly in his sheets.

Had he been his lover, Guan Shan might have reached an arm in drowsy wakefulness, begged He Tian to come back to bed when the sun rose. He would have wound sweetly around him and kissed his throat.

It would have been easy, and it would not have been this.

 _It could be,_ he thought, edged with a desperation that lingered on painful. _He would let me, if I kissed him._ It would only take a kiss. A searching reach of his hand. Touch, intimacy—something physical instead of this charged almost-space between them—would have changed everything. The trajectory of the night before would have continued, a comet blazing light between the stars, and Guan Shan wanted to let it.

But want, as he knew, did not make things happen. Want was not enough to make things so, or make things not so.

Guan Shan squeezed his eyes shut.

‘Am I,’ He Tian began. Stopped. ‘Have I hurt you? Again?’

‘You haven’t done _anything_ ,’ he ground out.

‘Then why are you—’

‘You haven’t—you didn’t—’

‘Guan Shan—’

‘Why didn’t you _do_ anything?’

‘Like what?’

‘Why didn’t you _fuck me_ when you could?’

He Tian stared at him through the glass. ‘I know you think you want me to—’

‘That’s not the _point_ ,’ Guan Shan said. He turned and pressed the back of his head against the window pane. He Tian was watching him intently. ‘This is about _you_. I was just— _there_ —for you to _take—_ ’

‘Like ripe fruit for plucking,’ said He Tian, flatly.

 _‘Exactly_!’ he cried, exasperated, feeling something sting behind his eyes. ‘I was _right there_! Anyone else would have and that’s just what Sil—She Li _wanted_ from his guards and one of _them_ would have done it eventually, so why didn’t _you_!’ He swallowed a tight, strangled sound that had worked its way up his throat, and whispered, ‘Why didn’t _you_?’

He Tian said, ‘You’re angry I didn’t rape you.’

‘It wouldn’t—It wasn’t going to _be_ rape, though, _was_ it? I knew what I wanted and—’

‘You didn’t know what you wanted at all,’ He Tian said. And then, ‘Look at you.’

Guan Shan felt like He Tian had pulled the knife from the sheath he usually wore, and slipped it neatly between his ribs, exact, perfunctory, and devastating.

He would have stumbled back, but the glass was hard and immovable against his spine, warm where it met his shoulderblades, and there was nowhere to go from those words, or the way He Tian was looking at him.

 _Look at you_ , he had said, because he was seeing Guan Shan with a truth that he couldn’t see himself. He was looking at Guan Shan, and had been looking at him since he woke, with a softness that Guan Shan didn’t deserve, and a softness that he knew He Tian shouldn’t possess. They were lying to each other.

‘You think you understand,’ said He Tian. ‘You think because you’re from Kai that you know what you want. You think you know what you should want, and what you should get.’ He shook his head. ‘You think you know what I want to give you, and you’re wrong on both accounts.’

‘Stop— _talking_ like that. Stop _looking_ at me like—’

‘Like I can give you more than anyone else has ever tried to?’ said He Tian, in disbelief. ‘Like you _deserve_ not to be forced into intoxication and then _forced_ into someone else’s _bed_? Except it wouldn’t have been a bed, Guan Shan.’ His face twisted. His voice took on something else. There was no space between them now: only skin that felt too hot and burning and inescapable. ‘It would have been a store cupboard or an alcove in the palace with his trousers around his knees while you tried not to cry and told yourself it’s what you _wanted_ and what you _deserved_.’

The breath Guan Shan drew in was not hot or arid this time. This was cold as winter air, a Noroian snow storm howling down his throat while he tried to make himself breathe and not get caught into it. His feet were lifting off the ground, and it would have been easy to let the wind take him.

‘Stars,’ He Tian muttered, stepping back. ‘That . . . I didn’t—I just wanted you to _understand_ , Guan Shan.’

‘I understand.’

He Tian glanced at him. What rushed from him in a torn breath was worn out and helpless. It said, _I don’t think you do, but I’ve given up_ , and Guan Shan didn’t know how to ask him not to give up on him because there was no one else left.

When He Tian dragged a hand over his face, Guan Shan heard the scratched sound of stubble, an unshaven jaw, and he realised that the cut on He Tian’s neck still hadn’t been properly tended to.

‘I’m going to bathe,’ He Tian said. ‘You should dress. I will take you to the physician’s before I meet with the Empress.’

‘I’m not ill. I’m fine.’

He Tian looked at him oddly. ‘I know. I’ve secured you an apprenticeship with him. You begin this morning.’

‘An apprenticeship.’

‘I promised, didn’t I?’

The words rang deeply, somewhere, inside of him, but he couldn’t hold onto the tendrils long enough for them to emerge as memory, real and certain.

‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Guan Shan said. ‘I should leave.’

‘Should you?’ said He Tian. ‘Where would you go?’

‘Where I came from.’

As soon as the words were out, he heard the question in himself as loudly as he heard it in He Tian: Which place was that? Kai alleyways and ichor dens and the alcoves of tiled roofs, when the summer rains poured? Or the burnt-out shell of a manor house where, once, Guan Shan had had a name other than Red. He Tian was looking at him like he understood there were two options—two possibilities. Like he knew that once, things had been different.

 _He knows_ , a voice whispered, a pest of a thing, pressing impossibilities into his mind that would do little more than frighten him. There was no truth in it. The only truth was that He Tian had a way of looking like he understood more about the world than he probably did. A part of Guan Shan wanted to accept that; he wanted to allow He Tian to understand him simply so he could be understood.

‘There is more for you here than there,’ said He Tian.

‘More? That’s relative.’ _That’s naive of you._

‘It’s a truth in many respects,’ said He Tian, and this Guan Shan couldn’t deny. ‘Dress while I bathe. And on the way to the physician’s, you can tell me about the prisons.’

* * *

 

The palace was alive and busy when Jian Yi woke. Even on the far side of the palace, he could make out the sounds of steel blades ringing in the barracks; the soft humming of servants as they wandered through halls and pinned washing outside in the servant courtyard; the churn of wheels and iron horseshoes over cobbles; envoys and nobles and merchants, trundling back and forth through the palace gates.

Jian Yi pressed a pillow over his head with a groan.

‘Don’t do that,’ came a muffled voice. ‘Someone might take the opportunity to suffocate you.’

‘I’d welcome it right now,’ Jian Yi said, wincing sharply as Zhengxi pulled open the curtains with a swift yank. Dust swirled in the bright beams that shone through, and the room was thrown into harsh relief. The pain in Jian Yi’s head was piercing, and he remembered, so clearly, how he had felt when he had been poisoned. It had felt, a little, like this. _One poison for another._

‘I thought you were supposed to stop me from drinking last night.’

‘I tried,’ said Zhengxi, perched on the windowsill, arms folded. ‘Sometimes you refuse to be reckoned with.’

Jian Yi blinked at him, rolling onto his side. ‘Like a storm?’

‘Like an untrained pup.’

Jian Yi grinned. ‘You wound me.’

‘You wound yourself,’ Zhengxi said pointedly. ‘I start to think the She might be onto something. Using drunkenness as an example of immoral excess.’

‘You say that because you’re Noroian.’

‘Your point?’

Jian Yi gave him a long look—at the starched shirt, the brown trousers. The only colour to be had was the blue of his eyes and the golden threads of hair, when it was hit by sunlight.

Jian Yi said, ‘You wouldn’t know fun if it was served to you on a gilded platter. Or perhaps a rustic wooden board would be better.’

Zhengxi scoffed, and crossed his legs at the ankles, head resting against the window pane.

Beyond him, Jian Yi could see a stretch of blue sky, and the air that slipped through the cracks was clean and spring-fresh. It carried the tingling traces of new pollen and opened flowers and wet grass, sweet enough that breathing was like drinking it.

‘Be careful in suggesting my sympathies lie with She, Jian Yi,’ said Zhengxi. ‘Or its Prince.’

His voice was full of intent, and Jian Yi understood too well what it meant. Despite the pounding behind his eyes, the dryness of his throat, he could not spend a day in bed nursing the effects of too much wine and too many spirits. He was to meet with his mother that morning, and with He Tian. The new treaty with She needed to be drafted, and approved by the court, and signed.

Jian Yi sighed. Zhengxi was looking at him from where he rested against the window, head tilted backwards, eyes staring down at him through dark lashes. The sun glanced off his shoulders and the crown of his head, haloed by early morning light.  

Jian Yi thought he knew that look; he was coming to recognise it for what it was. Staring back, naked and sleep-supple against the sheets, there were other things he realised he would have liked to do that day than handle diplomacy and issues of foreign affairs.   

‘Come here,’ Jian Yi said, an arm splayed out, hanging off the bed. His fingers beckoned.

Zhengxi straightened and moved over, barely an inch away from Jian Yi’s touch. It was torturous, that space.

‘Closer.’

Zhengxi obliged. He rested his knee on the bed at Jian Yi’s hip, and pressed his hands either side of Jian Yi’s head. His hair, bound with a strip of cloth, fell across his shoulder and onto Jian Yi’s chest, brushing against his skin.

Zhengxi’s head bowed, Jian Yi craned his neck upwards, and let his fingers slip through Zhengxi’s hair, across the sun-warmed skin of his nape.

When they met, Zhengxi’s lips were warm, his tongue hot and sweet with the taste of peach juice, and kissing him was like tasting him; taking from him; given a part of him that was more than the ripe sweetness of late spring.

‘Good morning,’ Jian Yi murmured, soft and satisfied and pleased.

‘Good morning,’ Zhengxi answered.

Jian Yi was aching for more, straining upwards, when Zhengxi’s other leg rose, and set down on the other side of Jian Yi’s hips. He was crowding him in, blocking out the sunlight with the curve of his spine, the eager press of his hands that fitted neatly on Jian Yi’s jaw, warm and calloused from wielding a sword. The feel of being cradled like that made Jian Yi feel fragile and breakable, like Zhengxi could both shatter him and save him, put him back together as something that was new—and better.

Jian Yi whined into his mouth, and Zhengxi gave an answering hum that made his lips tingle—and then a throat cleared, and a door clicked, and Zhengxi’s skin was burning red as he climbed off and stood again at Jian Yi’s bedside, still as a sentry.

The girl didn’t spare them a glance as she filled the bath at the end of Jian Yi’s bed with hot water, and more servants came in, each with a full vase, emptied, steam swirling from the ceramic tub. It seemed to last forever, until eventually the window panes were clouded with hot steam, and a platter of fruits, cured meats and bread was settled at the end of the bed.

Jian Yi looked at Zhengxi when they were gone, whose hands were in a tight clasp behind his back, his eyes unflinchingly resting on the opposite wall.

‘We could have carried on,’ said Jian Yi, around a piece of melon. He stretched lazily, hands reaching up to grip the twining carved headboard behind him. He could see the hardness of his body straining between the sheets, where Zhengxi’s hips had fitted moments ago; the flush that had worked its way across his sternum, where Zhengxi’s lips might have moved after a minute, uninterrupted. ‘I wouldn’t have minded.’

‘Well, I’m glad _you_ wouldn’t have minded,’ Zhengxi said stiffly, cheeks still flushed. He looked pointedly towards the bathtub. ‘You will be late for the Empress.’

‘And we wouldn’t want that,’ said Jian Yi.

He cast off his bedsheets and padded to the bath, sunlight warming his skin as he passed the window, and Zhengxi, the touch of the rays pleasant and soft.

‘Stars,’ he heard Zhengxi mutter, and indulged in a pleased smile, as he stepped into the bath and lowered himself into the water, the heat of it blushing in an almost-burn over his legs, his waist, and settling across his collarbones when he leaned back against the rim. The water was scented with oils of jasmine and violet leaf.

Zhengxi hadn’t moved.

‘Aren’t you going to help me?’ said Jian Yi.

Zhengxi just looked at him. ‘You know what it means if I do.’

‘You think that wasn’t why I asked?’

Zhengxi was moving before Jian Yi had even finished the question. He was rolling up his sleeves, and Jian Yi’s breath caught in his throat as Zhengxi fell with a fluid, practiced slide to his knees.

‘Cloth?’

Jian Yi swallowed. ‘It’s in here somewhere.’

‘Oh?’ said Zhengxi, and thrust a hand into the water.

Jian Yi felt the touch, sudden, shocking, choking _—_ and shot forward through the water. ‘ _Zhengxi!’_

* * *

 

The Empress was waiting in the court room when they arrived. Clean air was flowing through the open windows, and Jian Yi’s mother was haloed in enough light that she seemed made of it. Bright enough that Zhengxi thought, when the sun slipped behind a cloud, or the bough of a tree swayed in the breeze and cut through the rays, she would disappear too.

But her look was steely and cool, and Zhengxi was reminded again that she was made of stone and not light. Jian Yi, at his side as they sat at the table, could not have felt warmer. The hair at his nape was still wet. Zhengxi pulled his eyes away.

There was no scribe, or courtier. There was no one but the Empress, Jian Yi, and Zhengxi, and the stretch of long table that filled the room. The surface was polished enough that Zhengxi could see the faint outline of himself in it.

‘The East Fields,’ said the Empress, without inflection, as they pulled their chairs in.

Jian Yi’s motion arrested, for a moment, and then he leaned back, resigned, in his chair. He cast a look about the empty room. ‘Should we not wait for He Tian to—’

‘The East Fields,’ she repeated, not harder, or softer. It was nothing but a firm echo.

Jian Yi sighed. ‘He said it’s what he wanted.’

‘And you said yes.’

‘It’s better than war, Mother.’

‘Is it?’ she said. Her hands were placed neatly on the curled arms of her chair. ‘The thing about war, my son, is that there are transparent winners. There is an obvious outcome. What part of this arrangement is obvious?’

‘He said She was in need of arable land—’

‘He said,’ the Empress repeated. Her features were no more drawn in anger than had she been looking at the new blossoming of sakuras. ‘Because the She are trusted at their word.’

‘You don’t want war, Empress,’ Jian Yi said. He said it like a statement, but it was listed at the end, and when Zhengxi glanced at him, there was a flash of uncertainty in the press of his mouth, the narrowing of those eyes that matched, so exactly, the ones staring at him at the head of the table.

‘I don’t want war,’ she agreed. ‘But this . . .’ She touched her fingers to the papers in front of her. A scribe’s account of She Li and Jian Yi’s meeting. Jian Yi would not like that. Not because he had been waiting to tell his mother this morning, before anyone else, but because it proved, yet again, that no one in this palace was loyal to him, before they were loyal to the Empress.

 _I am,_ Zhengxi thought, and wanted to tell him. He should not have, but it was true. He suspected there were others in the palace, too, who thought the same.

‘I said the region would be monitored by Kaehaian troops. That it would be used for the intended purpose and no else.’

‘And you think that is all an agreement like this would entail?’

‘He knows the final decision rests with you, Empress.’

‘Well that is useful.’

‘If we allow them this,’ he said slowly, ‘and prevent bloodshed, are we not showing tolerance?’

‘Tolerance or foolishness?’

‘Mother—’

The Empress waved a hand. ‘This is a chess game that you have not yet learnt how to win, Jian Yi—’

‘ _Then tell me how to win it._ ’

The outburst was tight, and restrained, and Zhengxi felt the desperation of it in his throat. The warm air, the golden rays of light that swirled dust around the room—everything felt charged with those words. And the Empress showed no sign that she had heard them, other than to level her gaze on Jian Yi. Zhengxi reached for Jian Yi’s hand beneath the table, and could feel the panicked flutter of his pulse at his wrist. The touch of it felt like the too-quick beats of a bird’s wings at its first flight, and the ground was so far away.

‘I see,’ said the Empress.

‘No, you don’t _see_.’

Zhengxi shifted. ‘Jian Yi . . .’

Jian Yi ignored him. ‘How can I be expected to negotiate with Prince She if you don’t tell me what it is you want me to negotiate? How am I to know _anything_ if you don’t _tell me_?’ He gritted his teeth. ‘I’m not a child anymore, Mother. I’m not going to _die_ from being given your _trust_.’

Zhengxi watched as her eyes widened, as the hands on the chair tightened. Jian Yi would not notice this, because Zhengxi knew he was too preoccupied with seeing her as something that was not human, while Zhengxi was always waiting for her to prove herself as mortal.

‘You were almost killed, Jian Yi,’ the Empress said steadily, like Jian Yi was not aware of this. Like Zhengxi did not still dream of finding Jian Yi in his bed, blue-skinned and swollen and staring.

‘So you question why you should put any effort into me when I will die soon?’ Jian Yi said. ‘That I am useless and disposable and—’

‘ _You are not disposable to me._ ’

There was a beat of silence, thick and electric in the way it had not been a moment ago. The Empress’ words transcended that. Zhengxi had never heard her sound like that before.

She said, ‘I cannot _—allow_ you to—’

‘To have more responsibility than I can handle?’

‘Jian Yi—’

‘Why tell me to continue negotiations with him? In front of the whole court. You gave me the public responsibility, and now you ridicule me for acting upon _your_ orders.’

The Empress was silent, and it was a new silence, of words unsaid, held back. When was the Empress someone who held back her words? She had been born with the authority of never having to, and Jian Yi, often, exacted that same authority.

The silence stretched, and Jian Yi stared. He seemed to understand at the same time Zhengxi did.

He said, flatly, ‘You never thought I’d be capable of a peaceable solution. Did you?’

‘Jian Yi, I didn’t know what—’

‘I can’t _understand_ this,’ Jian Yi whispered. ‘Your whole reign you have been trying to strengthen ties with other kingdoms. _That_ is the example you have set, when you couldn’t take it upon yourself to actually _teach_ me.’

The Empress lifted a hand, fingers rubbing across her forehead. The white clothing she wore now made her look pale, and washed-out. The glow that clung to her—not real and yet _there_ —was now nothing more than the glow of dust lit by sunlight. Star light dampened, a candle blown out. Looking at Jian Yi, Zhengxi could not tell if he was seeing the eclipsing of a moon, or a new-burst star starting to burn.

‘The East Fields,’ the Empress said again, but this time with a different tone. ‘Very well.’

‘You’ll support this agreement?’

The Empress let her hand drop. ‘Once I have appeased the court, and they have given their consent to the drafted conditions . . . I will ratify it.’

Something should have come from this declaration. Some fanfare. A beam cutting through the long windows. But the sun was already shining bright and shadowy through the court room, and the silence was scarred with all that had already been said.

Jian Yi didn’t thank her. He didn’t say anything to her. Waiting, apparently, for what else he knew would come.

The Empress levelled her gaze on her son. ‘I will ratify it, but what results from this, Jian Yi . . . The weight of this decision lies with you.’

Jian Yi stared back at her with the same look. ‘No, Mother,’ he said, standing. He threw a sealed letter onto the table, which Jian Yi had told Zhengxi was from the King and Queen of She. It landed with a silent thud in front of his mother. ‘This, as everything does, lies with you.’

* * *

 

When the old man was not trying to hide an assassination attempt on the Prince of Kaehai, He Tian could find him in the palace infirmary—a large, windowed hall, where wall space was filled with bookshelves and cabinets of medical equipment, and the marbled flooring held mostly empty beds. There were members of the Guard who had been injured in practice; servants who had scalded themselves on bath water. Insubstantial, minor injuries while the Empire continued, warless. Nothing that meant the Imperial Physician could not find the time to teach Guan Shan while he worked.

‘Did you ask him, or did you force him?’ Guan Shan asked as they walked there.

He was pulling at the tightly buttoned cuffs of a black shirt, clothed like ash and embers. He Tian kept glancing at him. He looked different now too, no longer a spill of peach skin against He Tian’s sheets, but a newly crafted creature that was born of something over which He Tian had no control.

There were rumours that the Empress was faye. A changeling. He Tian wanted to tell them that they had got it wrong. The creature they searched for was right here.

‘Force,’ said He Tian, musing. They descended one of the palace’s rear staircases, narrow enough that their shoulders were almost touching. ‘You seem stuck on that idea.’

‘You—’

‘On what terms he agreed doesn’t matter. He agreed. Now,’ He Tian said, ‘tell me about the prison.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Don’t be coy,’ He Tian muttered as they rounded a corner. ‘Remember, it was your idea.’

He should have been with the Empress now, but instead, he was doing this. Acting as chaperone. Worse, he should have been with the Empress delivering her information that proved he had nothing to show for this investigation. Dead-ends, useless statements from interviews, absent evidence. No one, it seemed, knew who Bi Xiaowei, the serving girl, had spoken to when she acquired the poison for Jian Yi’s water. No one, it seemed, knew how an armed man had entered the palace gardens at night. No one, it seemed, knew anything.

‘ _My_ idea,’ said Guan Shan bitingly, ‘was dependent on a number of contingencies that _didn’t come to pass._ ’

‘You’re referring to—’

‘You fucking off on your noble steed to rescue the peasants. What do you think I mean?’

He Tian came to a stop, and Guan Shan, perhaps unconsciously, stopped too.

‘Bitter?’ said He Tian.

Guan Shan opened his mouth, and closed it when He Tian took a step forward. Guan Shan’s back hit the stone wall. The thud echoed down the empty corridor. It was a warm day; there were few people in the palace.

‘If you’d recall,’ He Tian said lowly, ‘we had a conversation like this last night.’

Guan Shan’s eyes seemed swallowed by his pupils, light blocked as He Tian moved closer. This close, He Tian did not miss the way Guan Shan’s gaze fell, flickering, to his lips. Widened. Like they remembered how they had felt on his. How their kisses had tasted of wine and peppermint tea.

‘I don’t,’ said Guan Shan, ‘recall.’

‘No?’

He Tian put a hand at the side of Guan Shan’s head. Guan Shan could have run, if he wanted to. He did nothing. If He Tian put a hand to Guan Shan’s chest, he wondered what music he would feel beneath his fingers.

‘You said you waited for me,’ He Tian said lowly. ‘You said that you _wanted_ me.’

He Tian heard the hitch, a breath caught, like He Tian’s words had clasped a hand tightly around Guan Shan’s throat. He Tian wanted to touch him. He wanted more than this barely-there space that was held, shadowed, between them. It would take no effort on either of their parts to close that space, and yet—

‘In the prisons,’ Guan Shan said, and He Tian could feel the warmth of Guan Shan’s breath on his skin. ‘There was a man in there. We made a deal. An exchange.’

He Tian brought his eyes up to meet Guan Shan’s. They were shadowed, clouded in the way they should have been last night, when instead, they had looked so lucid. In this shielded, preserved darkness that He Tian had made, they looked the colour of rust and dried blood. He Tian knew if he shifted, let light slip past the blockade his body had made, then they would be the colour of a forest, its leaves caught in fire when autumn came.

He Tian didn’t move.

‘An exchange,’ he said. He thought he was coming to understand the kind of voice Guan Shan used when he said things like that. It was the same voice, the night before, when he had said, _They didn’t. But they said they would._

‘He said he thought he saw something passing one of the prison windows. The night of the intruder. And a few nights before the Spring Festival began.’

‘Convenient,’ He Tian said carefully, eyes narrowing. ‘What did he see?’

His gaze was drawn to Guan Shan’s throat as it swallowed.

‘He said—’

‘Imperial Guard.’

He Tian knew that voice. Which was why, at first, he did not turn. Instead, he watched as Guan Shan’s words were snatched from him. How his gaze slid past He Tian—how he seemed to press himself further into the wall.

‘She Li,’ said He Tian, straightening, turning slowly. He barely stepped away, so Guan Shan was a warm presence at his back that, if he leaned slightly, would be flush against him.

The Prince of She was well-dressed in Kaian clothing, and his smile was little more than a curved line. A She guard hovered silently at his back. He Tian couldn’t remember if he was one of those from the night before.

‘I hope you rested well after last night, He Tian,’ said She Li. He spoke with a polite, limpid voice. It was not like Jian Yi’s, whose eyes glimmered with a spark of mischief. The veneer of She Li’s politeness was untarnished and effortlessly manufactured. ‘You seemed . . . distracted.’

He Tian smiled, and it was not the kind of thing he might have let loose last night, in his rooms, when Guan Shan might not remember it in the morning. Did not remember it. Had those smiles been wasted on him?

‘Thank you,’ said He Tian. He made himself say the rest: ‘My apologies if my tone was . . . untoward. The ride from the East Fields was not a comfortable one.’

She Li tilted his head to the side. The look he wore was toying, like He Tian was a plaything. Except the game he wanted to play gave more than bruises and scraped knees.

He Tian resisted putting a hand on the hilt of his sword.

‘And yet you returned with a victory,’ said She Li. ‘You should be honoured.’

‘Quelling a civilian riot is not a victory,’ said He Tian. ‘It is maintaining the peace of the Empire.’

‘Is peace not victorious?’

He Tian paused. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that is for you to answer. It’s why you’re here, after all.’

He was aware of the touch at his back, a warm hesitancy. Had Guan Shan moved closer? He Tian stepped to the side. The smile that She Li wore was real now as it fell on Guan Shan, but He Tian couldn’t hope to understand what it meant.

‘Guan Shan, was it?’ She Li said, with a look that was proprietary and held more in it than the moment warranted. ‘I suppose my apologies are in order for last night, too. I hadn’t realised you and the Imperial Guard had an arrangement.’ He said _arrangement_ the way one might say _fucking_ , and He Tian thought it sounded worse this way.

‘An arrangement,’ said He Tian, when Guan Shan was silent. When was he ever willfully silent?

‘I can’t imagine what sort of thing meant you had to be in a prison cell. I’m sure you both had your reasons.’

‘We did,’ said He Tian.

‘I see,’ said She Li, without looking away from Guan Shan. ‘How long can I expect to see you around the palace, Guan Shan? Is this indefinite? I would like to make up for my appalling behaviour somehow.’

‘No,’ said Guan Shan, sudden and loud. It echoed across the walls. He swallowed. ‘That’s . . .  unnecessary.’

‘Is it?’ She Li said. ‘But I’ve been so unkind. Debts should be repaid.’

‘There is no debt between us.’

‘He’ll be here while you negotiate with Prince Jian Yi,’ said He Tian. Talk of debt and obligation was uncomfortable, and he was drawn to what Guan Shan had said earlier. _I was right there._ Every word Guan Shan had stumbled over felt like glass shards in He Tian’s skin. It had been appalling.  

He didn’t think Guan Shan knew what he was saying. He didn’t think it was the thing he had meant to be saying—the thing that He Tian could see lurking behind his eyes and ready to spill from his tongue—but he _had_ said it, and so there must have been some truth in it.

 _You should go back to being the Imperial Guard_ , Guan Shan had said too, last night. Like He Tian wasn’t playing the role he was supposed to. What role was that? Unadulterated, unconscionable cruelty? Had Guan Shan forgotten that the head of the Kai Guard should be just and moral, too? That if He Tian was to mete out a death sentence as punishment, he should hold himself to that same law?

What was it that Guan Shan wanted from him? Why was it that he wouldn’t accept the closest thing to kindness He Tian was able to offer?

The whole thing was laughable. Last night, he had been thinking, torturously, about eternities he could not allow himself to have. Last night he had been assuming that Guan Shan might have longed for those eternities too.

‘That is good news,’ said She Li. ‘We might have the opportunity to get to know one another better.’

‘That’s unnecessary,’ Guan Shan said again.

She Li shrugged, an affable lift of his shoulders. ‘All the same. It would clear my conscience if I made some effort.’

‘Conscience?’ said Guan Shan, with a note of disbelief.

She Li just smiled. It was pointed, and sharp-edged. It was promising something, and He Tian had the distinctly unsettling feeling that Guan Shan, impossibly, understood what it was.             

‘Well, I must be going,’ She Li said, hands spread. ‘Treaties to sign, kingdoms to keep peaceable, brides to keep happy. It is a complex thing, but someone must do it. War can burst into flame so easily, otherwise.’ His gaze turned thoughtful, and contemplative. ‘You know, Guan Shan, sometimes it can only take a word for fire to catch.’

‘Don’t let us keep you,’ said He Tian.

She Li’s look was purely indulgent. He looked at the world like it had been crafted for him; like he was pitying those who had yet to realise it was not theirs: not the skies, or the trees, or the fruits they bore. Not the people within it. Not—and perhaps this was what She Li’s look had held—Guan Shan.

Why, of all things, would he stake claim on Guan Shan?

They bowed to one another, not low enough to be appropriate, but neither one of them could care. The small heel of She Li’s boots clicked against the marble flooring as he wandered around a corner, the guard close at his back, gone.

He Tian allowed himself a look at Guan Shan. He allowed himself to stare. It was like looking at someone who was not there; who, perhaps, might have been once, and all that was left was the ghostly impression, some pale reenactment.

‘You look—’

‘He saw nothing.’

He Tian faltered. Guan Shan’s voice was hollow. ‘Who?’

‘The man in the prison,’ said Guan Shan. ‘He thought he saw something, but he was mistaken. I learnt nothing while I was there. It was a useless endeavour. I made a mistake.’

He Tian felt his heart sink.

‘You’re lying.’

‘I told you—’

‘You said you hated liars.’

‘He Tian—’

‘Don’t _lie_ to me, Guan Shan,’ he ground out. ‘Not after . . . Not now.’

Guan Shan stared back at him. ‘He saw nothing. I made a mistake.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Doing what?’

Distantly, He Tian felt himself move, pushing Guan Shan against the wall. He could feel the whole length of his body. He could feel the echoes of the too-quick beat of Guan Shan’s heart, a hard, fast thing behind his ribs that He Tian could pretend was beating with his own.

Guan Shan was looking at him, and it was a challenge, mouth set and stubborn, eyes hard and unwilling to yield. It said that He Tian could push him and knock him all he wanted—it meant nothing. A defiance, under different circumstances, that might have made He Tian go out of his mind as easily as he might fall in love with it.

He Tian said, lowly, ‘You endanger the Prince with your silence.’ Because that was what he had to tell himself: that this was about the safety of the Empire, and its longevity held in a string of words that Guan Shan could have spoken, if he’d wanted to. And now he did not. This was not about deception and betrayal. They had no such obligation to one another. They were not anything to one another.

‘Your Prince,’ said Guan Shan. ‘Not mine.’

He Tian shook his head, minutely. ‘You don’t understand. He is everyone’s Prince. Street thief or noble. You owe him your allegiance.’

Guan Shan just stared. ‘I thought we agreed I didn’t owe anyone anything. Should I bend over in the throne room and let him stick his cock in me if he wants to?’

He Tian felt the sting on the skin of his palm after. What came first was the face turned in profile, the reddening skin of a stung cheek. He Tian could see the outline of his fingers on Guan Shan’s cheekbone. A single teardrop ran down the side of Guan Shan’s nose, helplessly shed, beading along the curve of his jaw.

The last time He Tian had hit him, Guan Shan had told him to.

He Tian opened his mouth. ‘I . . .’ _Didn’t mean to? Didn’t want to do that and had to? Couldn’t help myself?_

‘Truest selves,’ said Guan Shan, and when he turned his face to meet He Tian’s eyes, his eyes held a look in them that was entirely indecipherable. Again, that same uncertainty: It was a look that She Li might have known, and well understood. ‘I suppose we’re all baring the parts of ourselves that matter now, aren’t we?’

He Tian was silent. _Have I hurt you?_ he was hearing himself ask. _Again?_

‘Go on then,’ said Guan Shan. ‘Follow through. There was more of that, wasn’t there?’

He Tian pushed away. ‘Stars, Guan Shan,’ he said, breathed it out like there was a string on the end of the word, tightening and tugging through his throat. He felt like every part of him had been flayed and stripped back to what lay beneath the flesh; not the rawness of muscle and sinew, but something deeper, innate. Something that couldn’t be seen by anyone, except by Guan Shan.

He felt like a war had already begun, between the two of them, and he was destined to lose the moment he felt that watchful presence at his back in the Bazaar.

‘The physician will be waiting,’ he said quietly.

‘You have to see the Empress.’

He Tian nodded. He was not quite sure he was ready to speak with her at the moment. Her words were a sharpened axe that cut at He Tian indiscriminately. He had to steel himself for her kind of blithe cruelty, and Guan Shan had already made him bleed. No, He Tian had done that himself—pressed the blade close and carefully into Guan Shan’s palm, and told him to push in when he was ready.

Guan Shan was watching him. Last night felt so long ago.

‘Come,’ said He Tian.

They went.

* * *

 

‘Is the Prince not—’

‘We have spoken already. His presence is unneeded for this.’

‘Yes, Empress.’

‘You look tired, Imperial Guard.’

‘Only from the ride, Em—’

‘You are no use to me if you are weak.’

‘Yes, Empress.’

Silence settled as she read and re-read through the report, the quiet sound of parchment brushing against itself, her fingertip hovering over a word. A frown, barely a small shadow between her brows, would form occasionally, only to be wiped away with a smaller, less obvious nod. Watching her in contemplation was like a light veil of impassivity had been cast away.

He Tian shifted, and felt the twinging ache of his limbs and muscles. Sleep had been fleeting, and unforgiving, and he had woken every hour before he had to cast it off. He could still feel Guan Shan warm against his skin. The shape of him, soft and light in his arms.  

He hadn’t awoken as He Tian pulled himself from the tangle of Guan Shan’s limbs, sleep-heavy and dreamless, or as he lit a small lamp and sat himself down at the desk, exhausted and unwilling, parchment and an ink well pulled out from the desk. Guan Shan hadn’t awoken when He Tian found himself at the bedside, fingers reaching out to brush the arch of a cheekbone, the curve of a neck, the pale column of a throat. It felt uncertain, and dream-like, an ephemeral touch that was wanting, and He Tian was not sure now that it had been real.

‘Was there no rioting in the fields to the far east?’ The Empress’ voice reached him through the haze.

He Tian pulled his attention back to the room, dark, polished wood inked in shadows and the burnt ochre of light. ‘My company heard nothing while we were there. It seems any discontent had not reached that far. If it had . . . It would have taken us weeks to reach those settlements.’

‘All of this over food provisions,’ she muttered.

‘If war came, and they suffered a bad harvest . . .’

A sharp look. ‘Don’t assume I don’t understand, He Tian.’

‘Of course not, Empress.’

She settled. ‘And the likelihood of continued rioting?’

‘If war comes, which I understand it will not . . .’

She met his questioning gaze, and sighed. ‘A renewed treaty with She, yes. Jian Yi’s doing.’

The flippancy of her tone was a discomforting thing. Sometimes it was easy to forget Jian Yi was her son, and not just her heir. They were both the same: pale columns of silver, grey-eyed and smooth as new snow, but the similarities ended there.

‘What would you have done?’ she said.

‘Empress?’

‘If I had tasked you with the negotiations.’

He Tian paused. She should not have been asking him this, after Jian Yi’s own authority had been declared. He should not have given an answer.

‘She is a liability,’ he said carefully.

‘You sound like He Di.’

He Tian shook his head. ‘My brother would have them annihilated. I only think we should have tightened the reins.’

‘How?’

‘Small-scale battles at the border do not always lead to war. Restrict trade routes into Kai from She once they are won. If their merchants have to pay the tax of the Empress’ Road, they might refuse to trade with the Empire at all. And if they are not selling their wares to us, it would be unfashionable for anyone else to want them. Noroi would risk offense by trading with them. Far might not consider it worth it. See how well She fares when we restrict it without even making sanctions.’

‘Kicking a hive of bees does not sound wise.’

He Tian said, ‘At least it would not be appeasement and giving them more of what is ours. What is yours, Empress.’

‘You think war would be inevitable.’

He Tian paused. He said, ‘Perhaps Prince Jian Yi is the only one who does not.’

The Empress said, ‘I’m not sure optimism befits a ruler.’

‘He has a kind heart.’

The Empress raised her eyebrows, and he understood the look. It was not the sort of thing he would say to her; it was not the sort of thing he should ever say. It was soft and understated, and He Tian wasn’t sure which part of him it had come from. Was it a part that even existed at all, or was it newly, falsely made? Perhaps it lingered with the illusions of last night, the could-be’s that came, ultimately, to nothing.

The Empress touched a finger to her temple. The act was as much an admittal of exhaustion as the purpled bruises under He Tian’s eyes, the both of them too stubborn to admit to it. Incapable of admitting to it—a tremulous acknowledgment of weakness that would open them up to attack, without the means to defend themselves. He Tian was aware of the bruise on his chest from Guan Shan’s hand, thrown in a nightmare of fires and burning homes. The Empress, he expected, was wearing the invisible kind of marks that He Tian knew were uniquely inflicted by one’s family.

‘I want you to go to the border,’ said the Empress.

He Tian stared at her. ‘The border,’ he echoed.

‘Some of our scouts have gone missing. We are having to re-route the scouting paths to contact the General. I want you to relay news of the treaty to him. I know it will reach him safely if you serve as messenger.’

 _Serve as messenger._ ‘Empress—’

‘You have also made no progress here, with Jian Yi. It is my hope that relaying the evidence to He Di of the attack against Jian Yi might provide you wish some illumination.’

‘You wish me to leave Prince Jian Yi for weeks, without protection?’ _And yourself_. ‘Prince Zhengxi is a skilled swordsman, I’m aware, but he cannot plan or make arrangements for Prince Jian Yi’s constant—’

‘Prince Zhengxi will be going to Noroi for a short while, with his sister. The King and Queen sent an envoy this morning.’

He Tian was struggling to understand. ‘You wish . . . to leave the Prince unprotected.’

‘She Li and his guard will be here. The remainder of the Guard will carry out their duties in your absence.’

Was that not exactly the root of his concern? ‘ _Empress_ —’

‘I do not employ you to question my decisions, Imperial Guard.’

He Tian shook his head, slowly. ‘No, but I would ask that you at least take my council _as_ Imperial Guard. This is madness.’

The words were treasonous. The Empress brushed them aside. This was not the time for careful sensibilities when there was no sense.

‘Is it?’ she said.

‘ _Yes_. You are drawing away physical and social security for the Prince. If he is isolated then he is . . .’ He Tian levelled his gaze on her, thinking. Jian Yi, alone, in the palace. The Guard was capable, but He Tian’s last absence showed how quickly rules could bend, and protocol could slip. Untested water; an intruder in his bedchambers. A riding accident, the Prince neatly drawn out from the protection of the palace walls. It would be easy. And He Tian realised that perhaps that was exactly the point.

He said, ‘You want him isolated.’                          

The Empress folded her hands in her lap. She seemed to be drawing something around herself, some unassailable, untouchable mantle around her shoulders. It would be easy to look at her and imagine her calm, and just, and full of grace, but He Tian knew there was something at her core that would thwart all of that in a heartbeat. Something hot as molten silver burning quietly. He Tian saw it sometimes, in flashes, in her eyes.

She said, ‘If an assassin thinks he is alone, they will not hesitate to attack.’

‘No,’ said He Tian. He didn’t know how to make her understand. He didn’t understand why this seemed, to her, to make sense. It was nonsensical; she was offering her son up like a pig for slaughter, blood-stained beneath the nose of a hound. Offering him like she expected the hound would not take with dripping jaws and steel-sharp teeth. ‘An assassin would not think he was alone—the Prince will _be_ alone. His isolation is not an illusion. You are using him as bait with no safety net in place and—’

‘ _My decision is final._ ’

‘Empress, you are making a mistake.’

‘Oh,’ said the Empress. ‘But all responsibility lies with me, does it not? If it is my mistake then I will bear that alone.’

‘He is your _son_ —’

‘We are done here,’ she said. She waved a hand. ‘You have a week to plan and relay your instructions for the Guard.    

‘Empress—’

‘ _Enough_ , He Tian. That is _enough._ ’ Her face was as close to anger as he had ever seen it, nostrils slightly flared, eyes cold as a blizzard. ‘You will follow my orders or you will follow none at all, is that understood?’

He Tian recognised that tone. He had used it himself. He stood up, chair screeching backwards with the motion, and pressed a clenched fist across his chest.

‘Understood, Your Imperial Majesty,’ he said, flatly.

‘Dismissed,’ she said.

‘Yes, Empress.’

* * *

 

Zhengxi found him in the gardens, hours later. He was sitting on a grassy slope that slanted down towards the woods, and the sun was falling silently behind the boughs of the trees, his skin dappled with fading light, and a blue sky streaked with pink. Picked flowers lay between drawn up knees, the stems snapped, the petals torn apart, a nursery of broken fragments at his feet.

Zhengxi heard him sigh as he sat down beside him, the grass cool beneath his hands. Jian Yi’s fingernails were stained green, and pink from the fuschias he had plucked from the bushes.

‘My mother and father have sent for me,’ Zhengxi told him. ‘I am to return with my sister for a short time when her visit here comes to an end.’

Jian Yi’s face twisted. He glanced towards the sun, squinting, graceful fingers busily tearing apart nature’s small gifts. ‘My mother’s doing,’ he said, ‘no doubt.’

Zhengxi looked at him curiously. ‘For what reason?’

‘For the reason that she cannot allow me happiness and companionship.’

‘Jian Yi—’

‘For the _reason_ that if your sister returns alone, while the King and Queen of Noroi have probably heard of your sister’s engagement to She Li by now . . .’ He shrugged and looked down. ‘Your presence would soften the blow.’

Zhengxi considered this. It sounded like something Jian Yi’s mother would have preordained, except that it sounded like a kindness, and that did not seem like something Jian Yi’s mother would have done at all. For a moment, he thought as Jian Yi would have, seeing her as rational and insentient, and the realisation came immediately: if his parents gave their blessing for the marriage, relations between She and Noroi would not necessarily be better, but they would not worsen. And if Kaehai and She were to renew a treaty, Noroi’s own political amicability with She would not be unwelcome.

He realised, with this, that he was being moved around like a game piece, and he was not sure he felt comfortable with the knowledge.

‘You see what it’s like?’ said Jian Yi, tearing a daisy petal into white shreds. ‘This is what it’s like. Carrying out her bidding with no questions asked.’

‘You were always asking questions,’ Zhengxi remarked. ‘You still do. It’s like you’re . . . insatiable. Like nothing is ever enough for you.’

Jian Yi let his hands hang limp between his knees. ‘You think I overstepped my bounds this morning.’

‘I think . . . there were other ways harmony between you and the Empress might have been achieved.’ Zhengxi said, ‘You were discussing the fate of the Empire—no, of _more_ than the Empire—and it became a personal thing between you and your mother.’

‘Between the Empress and her heir.’

Zhengxi said nothing. When the silence stretched, Jian Yi flopped with no amount of grace onto the grass behind him, eyes blinking up at a darkening blue sky, legs kicked out before him.

There were nobles milling the gardens, but they were in the pavilions and wandering the neatly paved gravel paths further towards the palace. Here, the Princes were unbothered, save for the members of the Guard that Zhengxi knew would be watching, and the forest before them was left silent and empty, and stared back at them, snatching light between the thick clusters of conifer and oak.

‘We used to run in there,’ said Jian Yi. His eyes were closed, and Zhengxi allowed himself to look at him. There were strands of broken grass in his hair, and sunlight flecked his skin. ‘When we were younger.’

‘I remember,’ said Zhengxi.

‘You were the only one that played with me.’

‘I had to.’

‘You didn’t _have_ to. You wanted to make sure nothing ate me. It made you feel important.’

Zhengxi rolled his eyes at Jian Yi. His eyes were still closed, but there was a fond press to his mouth that said he was seeing them, eight-years-old and sprinting through the undergrowth like there was something at their feet. Like guards didn’t lurk in the shadows of the trees, ever-watchful. Like, if something reared out from the darkness and snapped its jaws, Zhengxi would be prepared, young and small and stalwart, to bring it down.

‘I used to imagine us living there,’ said Jian Yi. His voice was small, coloured with a quiet truth that he had never admitted. Zhengxi felt like a keeper of those truths, those small secrets that, one day, he would likely have to relinquish. One day, Jian Yi would tell those truths to someone else, and Zhengxi would have to hand over the key, or chain up the things he had learnt and let them gather dust and copper rust in a room to which he would eventually lose his way.

‘Living there?’ said Zhengxi. ‘While you had a palace?’

‘My mother has the palace,’ said Jian Yi. ‘And we would have the forest. I would make the fires and build us a shelter, and you could hunt our food.’

Zhengxi raised an eyebrow. He said, gamely, ‘Why am I hunting the animals?’

‘Lumbering about the forest, with _my_ skin?’ said Jian Yi. ‘I bruise too easily.’

Zhengxi breathed laughter through his nose. He settled himself down beside Jian Yi, feeling the warmth of him, and when Jian Yi rolled over to wind an arm around his waist, and press his head to the crook of Zhengxi’s shoulder, Zhengxi imagined he could feel his heartbeat.

‘How long will you be gone?’ Zhengxi felt the words as he heard them, a quiet hum of sound against his skin that made him shiver.

‘As little time as possible,’ he said. ‘A few days, at most.’

‘It will take you a week to get there. You should make the most of your trip.’

‘I should,’ he said, knowing he would spend every minute he was there, wishing he were here.

He looked down, but all he could see was the pale crown of Jian Yi’s head, his hair littered with grass strands and flower petals. Zhengxi reached up to pull them from his hair, and heard a quiet hum as his nails dragged across Jian Yi’s scalp. His knuckles brushed Jian Yi’s cheekbone, and his temple, and with each featherlight touch, Zhengxi marveled at the softness of his skin.

‘It’s growing long,’ Jian Yi murmured as Zhengxi worked. He sounded half-asleep.

‘Will you cut it again?’ Zhengxi asked. His mind flooded with the sight of Jian Yi flushed and sprawled in the bedsheets, hair strewn beneath him, to the small of his back. Zhengxi breathed slowly, and continued pulling at the grass.

‘I haven’t decided.’

Zhengxi nodded. ‘We should do something,’ he said. ‘Before I leave. With the Prince.’

‘I’d rather not.’

Zhengxi looked flatly at him, hand dropping, and when Jian Yi lifted his head, silver eyes glancing upwards, Zhengxi saw the spark in them.

‘Your sister wanted a hunt, didn’t she?’

Zhengxi’s heart beat in one single, throbbing thud. ‘Jian Yi,’ he began, warning. Throwing spears from horseback and arrows firing from quivering bows could end in bloodshed, and Zhengxi felt the curlings of dread as he imagined, not some boar or fallow deer, but Jian Yi, pinned and writhing at the end of them. She Li’s sharp, wolfish smile flashed in his mind. ‘That is asking for trouble you don’t need.’

Jian Yi’s lips were curved in a smile. He pressed his cheek back to Zhengxi’s shoulder. His breath was warm across Zhengxi’s neck.

‘Indeed,’ Jian Yi said, quietly. ‘But I think that’s exactly the point.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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